The Dragon of Dragonstone
by Ranschaj
Summary: The Dragons of Valyria have ruled Westeros for nearly three hundred years, and in only one the Dragon of Skyrim will tear down their dynasty. On the ancient Targaryen stronghold of Dragonstone, House Stormcrown will find their beginning.
1. Chapter 1

The bright, fiery ball some know as the sun rose in the sky. Its light first bore down on Qarth which, contrary to popular belief, was _not_ the greatest city that had ever been or ever will be, but that's a story for another time. Next, the powerful visible spectrum of radiation burned bright on the Red Waste, already burning the great desert, giving credence to the name. The Dothraki Sea felt the sun's warming rays next, followed by Valyria, Norvos, Pentos, and finally the great yellow ball of nuclear fire got a clear line of sight on a rocky, volcanic island at the mouth of a great bay.

The island was dominated by a truly massive castle whose walls and towers were made of great stone dragons. Some of the rocky beasts were made to look as though they were slumbering, others roared their silent defiance to the clear morning sky as others still looked off into the sea, perhaps on the lookout for potential enemy ships on the horizon. The only ships they spied, however, were friendly war galleys or merchant vessels laden down with cargo or coin.

The soft golden rays of the morning sun climbed the mountain that kept the giant dragon styled castle in its shade before the sun was finally high enough to catch the tall towers. One of the towers, which took the form of a grinning wyrm staring straight out from the mountain over the seas, caught the warm light with a window shaped like a dragon's eye and let the soft light wash over a spacious bedroom.

On the bed two figures were lying on their sides, the smaller one curled up with her back against the larger one. At the foot of the bed, leaning against a large wooden chest was a great battleaxe just about six feet long with a double edged head. Contrary to the dark, dire, and reptilian style of the castle itself, the room was decorated warmly, with a multitude of colors and skillfully crafted artwork from paintings, to sculptures, to the furniture itself.

Light had finally started to dominate the room, invading the closed eyes of one of the room's occupants, forcing the woman to wake.

…

Lynesse Stormcrown cracked an eye open and was immediately met by a sea of golden hair so fair some have mistaken it as Valyrian blonde.

With a groan of malcontent, the Lady of Dragonstone blew the offending follicles off her face, revealing the rest of the chambers to her sky blue eyes. The first thing to greet her is one of the only colorless objects in the room, her Lord husband's banner.

A white diamond dragon on a field of black, a simple, but powerful sigil, one that inspires fear in the hearts of many, and hope in the minds of others. The House Words were stitched below, though calling them words would be a stretch to many. Rather than letters, the writing looked as though it were drawn in the dirt by a flock of ravens.

Still, her husband assured her that they were in fact, words, only in the language of dragons. Seventeen years ago she would have scoffed at the notions of the overgrown fire breathing lizards having a language of their own, but time spent with her lord husband was a daily lesson in the impossible.

Kiir Do Bormahu, was the what these supposed words sounded like when spoken out loud. Complete gibberish to everyone but the Lord of Dragonstone and those few he had confided in. Children of Akatosh, was the translation Lynesse had learned from her husband, which only raised further questions to the uninitiated.

The second thing Lady Stormcrown noticed was that she was not alone in bed. Considering that she was married, many might think that she should not be too surprised by it. However, in seventeen years of marriage, the only times she had awoken to find her husband still asleep was when he was still recovering from a wound, or had only just crawled to bed himself after spending all night working.

Bright blue eyes flicked down to look at the muscled arm encircling her body, ending in a massive hand still groping one of her exposed breasts. As was typical for the couple, the pair were still naked from their marital activities the night before. The calluses acquired from a lifetime of hammering, be it with a hammer at the forge or with Wuuthrad on the battlefield, tickled the soft skin of Lynesse's bosom, something she had gotten used to rather quickly in their marriage. Lord Stormcrown may be one of the most dangerous warriors to have ever graced the planet, but he loved tits just as much as the next man, especially the ones attached to his wife's chest.

With a tired sigh, the still sleeping Lord of Dragonstone pulled his wife closer to him until her back was flush with his broad, muscular front. Lynesse wriggled in his arms, attempting to turn herself on her back so she may look upon her husband's face.

Seventeen years of marriage, four children, one rebellion and a half dozen tourneys and the former scion of House Hightower still couldn't bring herself to call her husband handsome. Their marriage had turned from one of convenience to one of love long ago, but all the love in the world could straighten the man's crooked nose that had been broken in a fight long before she had even met him. Nor could it change the heavy brow that hung over his eyes like a cliff. No amount of love could heal the jagged scars that ran down the left side of his face, a souvenir from his homeland he'll carry for the rest of his life.

Still, there were qualities that Lynesse quite liked about her husband, his rich chocolate eyes, capable of shining warmly with love, or burning with cold rage, a jaw line that could cut stone covered in short cropped sandy brown hair, and his thick sandy brown hair that she loved to run her hands through. His skin had a light olive tone, not dark enough to pass as Dornish, not pale enough to belong to any of the other kingdoms.

Her husband was also one of the tallest men she had ever met, towering over even King Robert Baratheon. Lynesse often found herself having to rise up onto her toes while he had to crane his neck just for the two to share a kiss. Of course there were his muscles, the kind maiden's dreams were made of. A childhood spent working the forge and a manhood spent crushing foes with the great battleaxe Wuuthrad had built a man in the image of the gods themselves. Oddly enough, the scars that littered his torso only seemed to make the flesh beneath more appealing to the former Hightower.

Then there was perhaps her favorite physical feature of her Lord husband, which had chosen this moment to alert the Lady Stormcrown of its presence.

Just as she was admiring her husband, the man himself let out a groan of sleep filled unhappiness, just before his deep brown eyes met Lynesse's shining blues.

"Good morning, dii kiim," Erik Stormcrown's rich baritone rumbled through both their bodies.

"Good morning, my love," Lynesse responded, turning the rest of the way to face him fully, "I must say, my Lord, still in bed at this hour? What will the castle do without you?"

Erik gave her that brilliant white smile she could never get enough of before going along with the joke, "The place will almost assuredly fall apart, perhaps they'll depose me as Lord in favor of someone who takes their duty more seriously?"

Lynesse let out a laugh at that. If there was one word that could describe her husband, it was dutiful. Doubtless if he was still in bed, then there likely wasn't much scheduled for the day.

Erik's own, much deeper, laughter joined his wife's before speaking again, "Actually I don't have court today, there are no guests, and the harbor master hardly appreciates it when I micromanage."

"So you have the day to yourself? What shall you do with all this free time?" Lady Stormcrown asked teasingly.

"I was going to inspect the walls, make sure they're in good repair, then most likely spend the afternoon in the training yard," the large man replied, "Let Baelor and Farkas have a go at their old man. Once Farkas is done with his lessons anyway."

Erik shifted in the bed again, pressing his body against his wife's before speaking again, "What about you, dii kiim?"

Lynesse put a contemplative expression on her face before answering, "I was thinking about going for a ride this morning, on my favorite mount."

Lord Stormcrown's brow furrowed in confusion, there weren't exactly many nice places to go riding, but he simply shrugged it off before moving to get out of bed, "Very well, I'll go notify the stables…"

A slender hand snaked around his chest before throwing him back on the bed. Lynesse straddled his hips and raised herself above his stiff manhood, "I wasn't talking about riding horses, My Lord."

…

Lady Stormcrown sauntered out of the room and down the tower stairs a few hours later, leaving her husband behind to get dressed as she went to set the servants on gathering breakfast for herself and her Lord husband.

As she moved through the ancient Valyrian stronghold Lynesse couldn't stop smiling at the colorful tapestries and bright paintings that decorated the halls. When she had first married Erik, Dragonstone was every bit as gloomy on the inside as it was on the outside, if not more so, but the longer she lived here, the more her background as a daughter of one of the wealthiest families in Westeros began to influence the castle.

Not that she was buying everything she could get her hands on and plunging her House into financial ruin. Rather she simply had redecorated the ancient fortress, almost mirroring her old home in Hightower of Old Town. Seven knows her husband wasn't likely to do it. The man was an unparalleled warrior, a master of the high seas, and an incredibly skilled lover, but didn't care much for interior design.

Reaching the Chamber of the Painted Table, Lynesse found her youngest daughter just sitting at the table to break her own fast.

Alerie Stormcrown was the smallest of Lynesse's four children, though she was almost ten minutes older than her twin Farkas. Just like her younger brother, the little lady had inherited much of her father. Sandy brown hair, deep brown eyes, and a charming smile, but unlike her brother, Alerie had developed after her own mother, growing into a short, slender frame that was only a few years from truly blossoming into a woman, but for now her father was glad she was still just a girl. Things had been hard enough for him when Rayya had become a woman grown.

"Good morning, Alerie," the Lady of Dragonstone greeted her youngest daughter, "I see your are up later than usual."

The girl's shoulder length hair flew as she spun her head around to see her mother standing in the doorway, "Mother! What are you doing here so late?"

"I thought to break my fast," the older woman said with a delicately arched brow, "Is this such a crime in my own castle?"

Erik's smile appeared on his daughter's face, "Well no! and besides, it's father's castle."

Lynesse laughed, "If this were still your father's castle it would still be a dark, damp, and lonely place. He may rule its occupants and the lands surrounding it, but I'd say I've earned the right to call this old chunk of stone mine."

"What would father think of that?"

"What would I think of what?" Erik asked as he stepped into the room, causing both mother and daughter to jump at the sound of his voice. For such a large man he could move from place to place without so much as a whisper.

"Gods be good, husband, are you trying to kill us?"

"I'd like to think that if I were trying to kill you, I'd do a better job," the Lord of Dragonstone replied.

"Okay," Alerie said, starting to sound suspicious, "Now I know something is going on. There's no way father would be in bed till so late."

"Your mother had me… occupied."

Lynesse beamed at her husband, she could still feel the after effects of their lovemaking inside her. Erik grinned back at her, a fierce light gleaming in his eyes, promising more to come later on. Unfortunately for Alerie, she managed to catch on to the looks between her parents.

"Oh, gross!"

"Manners young lady!" Lady Stormcrown scolded, "Did you leave all your courtesies behind in all your haste to leave your bedchamber before midday for the first time all week?"

They youngest woman of House Stormcrown immediately set herself to argue, "I've been up before midday!"

"Oh?" Lynesse's husband asked, "Where were you then? I looked for you at this very table, yet I did not see you. I have asked Maester Pylos about you, and he claims to not have seen you. Baelor, Rayya, Farkas, all ignorant of your whereabouts. You must have the powers of invisibility to remain so hidden."

The Lady of Dragonstone listened with humor as her husband and youngest daughter bickered back and forth as the woman herself moved around the huge table carved in the image of Westeros and took her usual seat right by her old home of Old Town just as the door at the south end of the room near Dorne swung open and two servants walked in carrying the food Lady Stormcrown had ordered just a few minutes before.

After breakfast, Erik sent Alerie on her way to her lessons with Maester Pylos. All of her children were unique, and Alerie was no exception. The girl was dedicated to learning the secrets of the human body, how it worked, how to treat injuries, even what points to press best to incapacitate another person. This had caused friction between the two women, Lynesse insisting that she did not raise a Faceless Man, while the young girl had been obstinate about the subject, insisting that it wasn't fair that Baelor and Farkas got to learn how to defend themselves, but she had to remain a helpless little lady.

Eventually it had lead to a shouting match between the two, one that got so out of hand, everyone in the castle, perhaps even the people in the rapidly expanding city below, was well aware of the fight. It had taken the Lord of Dragonstone himself to bring the fight to an end. Erik lacked the subtlety required for the political maneuvering necessary in the game of thrones, but what he lacked in subtlety he made up for with a powerful presence, that could bring anyone, even the woman who had seen him through all of his ups and downs, to heel. He didn't even really resolve anything himself, just forced the two women to resolve their own problems in a much quieter, much more agreeable manner.

Since then Lynesse had relented when it came to the girl's studies, but she still insisted that Alerie play the part of the lady when in court, or when at feasts or other official matters where appearances were needed to be maintained. In return Alerie was allowed to continue her studies with Maester Pylos and even got permission from her mother to learn to properly use a bow from her older brother, Baelor. She was a pretty good shot too, able to bullseye a target from nearly two hundred yards, something neither of her brothers had been able to manage despite having trained with one for much longer.

Lynesse climbed the stairs of Wyndwyrm, a tower of Dragonstone that was, unsurprisingly, shaped like a dragon, one which was screaming up into the sky. This particular tower was the home to perhaps the most unique resident of the castle, perhaps in the whole of Westeros.

"Focus," a musical, lilting voice said, "The flame is hot, intense, but not all consuming. You decide what it will burn, but only if you can focus on the fire and nothing else."

"It's difficult," another distinctly feminine, though much younger sounding, voice replied.

The Lady of Dragonstone entered the chambers at the top of the tower, finding two women seated cross legged on the floor of the room, one with her back to the door, and the other facing it. The woman facing Lynesse was short, slender, with a seductive build that was hidden well under thick blue robes. None of that made her unique, however. What did were the blood red eyes, dark blue, almost purple, black skin, and ears that were nearly six inches long and ended in a dagger like point.

The other figure was much less distinctive, though only for the fact that she was at least human. Rayya Stormcrown was much taller than her mother, and in fact was almost as tall as most men in her slippers as they were in boots. That was the only part of Lynesse's eldest daughter that one could confuse with a man. There was a time where people from all corners of the Seven Kingdoms spoke of the Lady Stormcrown's beauty, in fact many still spoke of it for age had only enhanced her already considerable beauty with motherly curves.

Rayya was well on her way to outpacing her mother there, tall and slender, with the same blonde hair, darker ocean blue eyes, and her father's pale olive skin giving her an exotic, alluring quality. At six and ten the elder daughter had already developed womanly hips, and a fair sized bosom that caused more than a few of the castle guard to turn their heads when she passed, or at least, they used to.

One day an unfortunate guard had been just a little too obvious with his gaze and Erik had seen it, quite correctly putting the pieces together. Needless to say that guard did not serve the House of Stormcrown anymore. It had taken all of Lynesse's considerable skill at manipulation to calm Erik enough to not beat the man to a bloody pulp. Unfortunately that was only the tip of the iceberg, for Lord Stormcrown couldn't just fire everyone who visited, or the families they visited.

It was somewhat amusing to Lynesse that Erik was taking their daughter's recent betrothal and not too distant wedding harder than Rayya was. Though most of the time it was annoying, to both mother and daughter that he felt the need to protect her all of the time, particularly when she could take care of herself.

This led to the elf woman sitting across from her daughter on the floor, a ball of fire suspended between her open hands. There was one between Rayya's hands as well, but the difference between the two was easily seen. The elf's was a bright yellow, steady ball of fire, whereas Lynesse's daughter's was flickering between yellow, red, and blue, all while shifting in size dramatically and giving off an intense heat.

"I understand it's difficult, but if you cannot control the fire, it will burn you just as easily as anyone else," the dunmer said to the girl in front of her, "And think of how you will look at your wedding without any eyebrows."

The sputtering ball of flame expanded violently and very nearly started to burn the young woman's clothes before the fire contracted back into a small, smooth, ball of flickering yellow light.

"That was mean, Brelyna," Rayya said, "even for you."

"You make it sound as though she does nothing but tortures you all day," Lady Stormcrown said to her daughter.

The ball of fire turned a violent blue for just a second as Rayya's concentration was broken for a second, but quickly returned to the steady flickering yellow, "Lady Maryon is well versed in many subjects, mother. Torture is just her favorite."

"Well, Brelyna," Lynesse said to the dunmer mage, "Don't get too carried away with the torture, as you said we want her looking all nice and tidy for her wedding."

With a groan, Rayya let the little ball of fire dissipate, "Why is everyone so focused on _my_ wedding? What about Baelor? Why don't we all focus on him?"

"Because he doesn't have a match yet," Lynesse asked, "Not that your father has exactly been looking very hard."

"So it was more important to make sure I get married off?" Rayya asked.

The Lady of Dragonstone sighed, "The Starks came to us! Besides, I thought you liked Robb?"

"We've been writing each other since father came back with the news," the young woman corrected, "Hardly enough to know whether or not I like him."

Brelyna picked this moment to jump back in, "I remember when I was a girl, back in Morrowind. I exchanged letters with a boy I had met at one of my parent's feasts. He was the son of a noble on the island of Solstheim. I hardly ever saw him so our entire relationship was built off words on parchment. I was _convinced_ I was in love with him."

Lynesse cocked her head, "What happened?"

The dunmer sighed sadly, "The Red Mountain would let off some pressure every couple of years, and Solstheim was just close enough, and maybe the wind was in the right direction. His home was crushed by a chunk of stone and buried in ash. I never even found out if he had been killed by the rock, or suffocated by the ash."

The silence in the room was deafening until Brelyna noticed the look on the two Stormcrown women, "Well at least you won't have to worry about volcanoes!"

Rayya smiled back at her mentor, "Well at least there's that, though there will be a lot of snow."

There was shouting outside the window of the chambers leading the three women over to the window facing the harbor. Not that there was much of a point, the shouting was coming from the docks, which were far too far away to actually see anything from the castle, though the view was still stunning, particularly for Lynesse who could still remember when there used to be nothing but a small fishing village where there was now more than ten thousand people, massive piers, warehouses, workshops, taverns, forges, barracks, everything a city needed to be a city, and it was growing quickly.

The island of Dragonstone had almost no natural resources to speak of. The only reason the Valyrians had built a castle on the hunk of stone sticking out from the sea was for its strategic location at the mouth of the massive Blackwater Bay, something Erik and Lynesse had used to their advantage.

House Stormcrown was growing wealthy and powerful quite rapidly, all by being nothing more than the proverbial middle man between the Seven Kingdoms and the Free Cities. Merchants from the Free Cities sold their cargo to traders on Dragonstone who then sold it to the rest of Westeros, with a small percentage of each transaction being paid to the Lords of Dragonstone so they could continue to build and maintain the small but effective fleet of warships that kept the trade routes through the Narrow Sea clear of pirates.

Ironically, the addition of a middle man in the trade system had actually reduced prices. By shortening the trips made by traders from Essos and Westeros by half, merchants could make twice as many runs, and by ensuring that almost no ships were taken by pirates or Ironborn had made the trips much less risky for the traders, meaning they no longer had to hire sellswords to accompany them.

Many pointed to Erik as the mastermind behind the entire project, and protecting trade routes had been his idea, but Lynesse had been the one to suggest that traders from both continents offload their cargo on Dragonstone, and put a small tax on each merchant doing business there. Lord Stormcrown had wisely deferred to his wife's superior knowledge and experience when it came to trade, and as a result was able to focus on building a decent sized, well trained, well equipped, and battle tested standing army.

"It will also probably be a fair bit quieter," Brelyna added as they turned back from the window, "Though I don't know if that's a good thing."

"Your father assured me Winterfell is a lovely place," Lynesse assured her daughter, "Besides, your father is taking this much harder than you."

"Why is he so worried about me?" Rayya asked, "Brelyna has taught me more magic than father could ever learn! I can take care of myself."

Lady Stormcrown sighed before responding, "He's not worried about you being beaten, he's worried that Robb may indirectly hurt you. Say the wrong thing, not appreciate you like he should. He remembers when he was your age, and when there was only one thing on his mind."

"Do you think father has any bastards back in Skyrim?"

"RAYYA!" Lynesse screeched in shock at the question. Brelyna was quiet for a moment before bursting out with laughter at the audacity of the question.

"What?" the eldest daughter asked, "He told us about his adventures in his homeland, I bet he had quite a following back home."

Lady Maryon finally managed to get her laughter under control long enough to answer the young woman's question, "Your father was known for having a girl or two in every hold in Skyrim, but I know for a fact he never had any children before he married your mother."

"How can you be sure?" Lynesse's daughter asked a question the Lady of Dragonstone was suddenly interested in having an answer for.

"Because I knew all of these women," the dunmer mage said as she moved over to pitcher to pour herself some water, "And none of them were ever pregnant, your father was far too careful for that."

The she-elf then moved over to the book shelf and grabbed a heavy tome titled _The Horror of Castle Xyr_ before handing it to Rayya, "Now I want you to read this tonight, it should help you concentrate on your destruction spells, and for your mother's sake you should likely avoid speaking of bastards."

"Robb told me he has a bastard brother named Jon."

"Rayya," Lynesse said, pinching her forehead, "Just go and do as Brelyna says."

"Of course mother, Lady Maryon," the girl, using her lessons in courtesy, curtsied as she slipped down the stairs of Wyndwyrm with the heavy book in her hands.

The former Hightower turned to the she-elf, "She's improving?"

"Greatly my Lady," Brelyna answered, "Destruction appears to be the only school she struggles with, though the way her father struggled with any magic it's a wonder she's able to conjure a ball of light, never mind the fact she's already one of the most skilled Healers I've ever met."

"You know I'm still not sure how I feel about my daughter learning magic," Lynesse admitted, "If the people of Old Town knew they might brand her a dark witch and bring the might of the Faithful down on us."

"My Lady," the mage began, "I have known your daughter since she was seven, taught her as much as she was willing to learn. Which as it turns out is quite a bit. I refuse to believe the smart, witty, sometimes sarcastic girl I've come to know is an affront to _any_ of the gods. Be they the Nine or the Seven."

The Lady of Dragonstone nodded in agreement, "I know, but as I've come to know, people rarely choose to listen to reason, they just act. Good day Lady Maryon."

"Good Day, my Lady."

Lynesse made her way out from the castle walls to the courtyard to enjoy the rare sunshine on the usually gloomy island of Dragonstone, and also to watch her two sons train with the castle guard.

She picked her eldest out easily. A tall, broad shouldered, powerfully built young man was surrounded by three guardsmen. The Heir to Dragonstone spun gracefully as he avoided, parried, and counterattacked with a grace that belonged to a man with many more years experience than a boy of seven and ten years.

Baelor was the spitting image of his mother in the face, with the exception of that powerful jaw and charismatic smile that belonged to his father. Golden curls kept short upon the insistence of his father glistened with the sweat of exertion as he ducked underneath one swipe from one soldier before blocking the follow up attack by the guard that had circled to Baelor's left.

Wrenching the sword down, Lynesse's son pressed the attack with a speed that was almost supernatural and disarmed the man in less than three strikes, just in time to jump back from the recovering soldier's attempt to catch Baelor off guard.

The remaining two soldiers pressed their attack, but with skill and speed the young Stormcrown parried each attack with his blunted steel longsword before locking blades with the guard on his left and used the strength he had inherited from his father to shove the unfortunate man in his companion's way, slowing the second one down long enough for Baelor to deflect the man's sword high and deliver a powerful kick to his midsection, knocking the second guard to the ground and out of the fight.

The last guard recovered and moved to attack. With practiced ease, the Heir to Dragonstone parried the three successive strikes before surging forward after he knocked the last strike wide and placed the dull edge of the practice sword against the soldier's throat.

"Yield," the man said with exhausted exasperation. Clearly this was not the first time he had been on the receiving end of Baelor's practice blade, and likely wouldn't be the last.

"That was good, boy," a deep, accented voice commented, "but you're still relying on counterattacks too much. Your enemy won't always be so easily maneuvered, particularly on a battlefield when quarters can get tight."

Lynesse's bright, sky blue eyes shone from her son's face as Baelor turned back to the man who had taught him nearly everything he knew about the sword. Vilkas was as tall and stern and as northern as he was the day he had been brought into House Stormcrown's service, though his hair was streaked with silver and a few lines had begun to show on what most women considered a very handsome face.

"You think I need to attack more?" Baelor asked the former Companion. The young man had inherited blonde hair blue eyes, and a handsome face from the Hightowers, but his tall, powerful frame and commanding baritone were all from his father.

Vilkas nodded as he helped one of the guardsmen up, "You have been blessed with the speed and strength of your father. Use your speed to your advantage and press the attack while _they_ are attacking."

The handsome young heir screwed his face in confusion, "Isn't that just a preemptive counterattack?"

"Call it what you will," the Nord shrugged, "but it will save your life in a battle. Here, I'll walk through it with you. Soldier! Come here."

The soldier he had called ran up to the Captain of the Guard, "Ser?"

"Attack me," Vilkas instructed. The man hesitated and the Nord reassured him, "You won't hurt me."

"It's not you I'm worried about, Ser," the soldier answered honestly, but did as instructed anyway.

The soldiers of Dragonstone were a battle tested lot, having fought pirates on the high seas and chased them into their burrows on forgotten islands scattered through the Narrow Sea. The soldier swung his sword with experience and grace, but Vilkas made the man look like a fool as the large man simply sprang forward and grabbed the man's sword hand with his free hand.

The soldier attempted to bash the former Companion away with his shield, but with a display of agility a man of Vilkas' size should not possess, the Nord simply side stepped the shield and pushed his larger body into the soldier's chest, knocking him to the ground where he found a sword pointed at his throat.

With a mild groan of pain, the soldier yielded to the Captain of the Guard.

"Do you see what I did there, boy?"

Baelor nodded in understanding, having watched the exchange with an astuteness that had always impressed Vilkas and Erik, "I think so. You used speed and size to your advantage to end the fight quickly. It's useful against one opponent but what multiple enemies?"

Vilkas called over a couple more of the castle guard. This time three soldiers attacked in unison, with the precision and teamwork that came with real battle experience, and once again the Nord made them look like green boys who had never held real steel before.

Again he grabbed the middle soldier's sword hand and dodged the follow up push with the shield, but instead of throwing the soldier to the ground, Vilkas pushed the man into one of his compatriots, knocking them both to the ground. The mighty warrior then spun with an easy grace to smash through the skilled attack of the third man and put a massive shoulder into the soldier's chest, throwing the man off his feet and to his ass.

Her son once again showed the astute, eager mind of warrior scholar, "I think I understand. You don't want me to rely on my sword. You think I should also use my body as a weapon?"

"Exactly," Vilkas said, "You rely on your blade as any knight would, but most knights aren't built like you. You're big, strong, and fast, and that is an advantage few others have, and even fewer practice to defend against."

"So you're saying I could be better," Baelor commented.

Vilkas laughed, "Everyone could be better, but you're already better than most when it comes to that sword."

Lynesse's eldest son smiled at his mentor, until the older man spoke again, "You're absolute shit with that ax though."

Baelor laughed along with Vilkas at that, "That's fine, Farkas can have Wuuthrad, I'll keep Storm's Wrath for myself though."

Lynesse picked that moment to interject, "You're father may let you use the sword, but it's not yours yet, my son."

Her son's handsome face lit up in a smile as he turned to look at her, sweat flying from his golden curls as he did so, "Mother! You're finally up, what took you?"

"Your father kept me," the former scion of Hightower said, throwing a wink at Vilkas as she did so. Baelor's grin dropped at the suggestion and grew into a face of terror at the implanted mental image, causing the Captain of the Guard to laugh in his student's face.

The bells of Dragonstone tolled again, ringing to let the people of the castle and the city below know that it had finally reached midday. Soldiers all throughout the courtyard began putting their blunted training swords on weapon racks around the training yard and picking up their real weapons. Each soldier used a seven foot spear as their primary weapon, but carried a longsword for backup and close quarters and a broad square shield. Captains were allowed more leeway with their weapon choice, and more than a few were seen with long axes or greatswords, though a few preferred a hand and a half longsword.

One of the three soldiers who had been training with Baelor and Vilkas stepped towards the Captain of the Guard, "Ser Vilkas, it is time for our duty shift at the docks, unless you have further need of us?"

"You are dismissed, Sergeant," Vilkas told the soldier.

As they turned to leave Baelor got their attention. When they turned to the young Lord he pulled a pouch from his belt that jingled with the promise of coin, "Thanks for training with me today, drinks are on me tonight!"

The sergeant caught the coin pouch and nodded graciously, "Thank you, milord!"

Lynesse cocked an eyebrow at her eldest son who looked back, "What? They let me knock them around the training yard all day, least I can do is buy them some drinks."

"They don't _let_ you knock them around," Vilkas said, "They're trying their hardest to knock you flat on your ass, as your father and myself ordered them to. You've earned every strike you've ever landed with your sword in this courtyard."

"Regardless it was still generous, Baelor," Lynesse told her son, "You will make a great Lord of Dragonstone."

"Thank you, mother," he replied before asking, "Do you know if father will be joining us in the training ring today?"

"He said he would be down here to test both you and Farkas, to see how far you've come."

"Uh-Oh," a new voice said. All three turned to the source to find an extremely tall and lanky young lad with his father's face and his mother's eyes.

"Oh don't sound so glum little brother!" Baelor said to the younger son, "I'm sure he won't break any bones! We leave for Rayya's wedding in just two days after all! I doubt the Starks would be impressed if we showed up in casts!"

Farkas hardly looked very comforted. Lynesse's youngest child, Farkas was ten minutes younger than Alerie's five and ten but already taller than everyone else in the family at nearly seven feet. Sandy brown hair, sky blue eyes, and his father's heavy facial features, Farkas was more his father than the other three, though in his mother's obviously biased opinion he was considerably more handsome than Erik. To be fair, a pair of service maids she had overheard appeared to share Lynesse's opinion, saying that he would be quite the catch once he filled out more.

The boy was already filling out into manhood; lanky arms were coated in corded muscle that showed the promise to expand with age. According to Erik, he had once been just as skinny as Farkas, but had filled out quickly once he began practicing with real steel. Baelor had been the same, filling out into the tall, powerful young man standing on the stone courtyard today.

What Farkas didn't share with his father, or his mother, or any other member of his family was an undeniable, almost adorable sweetness. The boy simply didn't have the same mean streak his father was famous for and the rest of the family was certainly known to have. Unfortunately the reason for this kindness was the result of what his mother feared was a slow mind.

Not to say the boy was dimwitted, but he struggled in his lessons with Maester Pylos. Numbers seemed to elude him, and any lessons about other Houses and their Words just seemed to slide right off of him. Farkas knew he wasn't as smart as his siblings, and it definitely hurt the boy's feelings. His siblings, and his mother all tried to help him, to show their support for him, unfortunately made him feel worse. In fact the only people who made him feel better about it was Erik and Vilkas, telling Farkas that he was exactly like his namesake. Large, strong, a fearsome warrior, perhaps he was uneducated but the first Farkas was smart in his own right, and could not rightly be looked down upon by anyone, regardless of how much 'smarter' they were.

So Farkas had dedicated himself to living up to Vilkas' twin brother, and the legacy the Companion had left with his brother Vilkas and his best friend Erik. The boy took up the ax, a symbol of strength, and was unerringly loyal, and an absolute sweetheart. He was the favorite brother of the other three children, and made easy friends with almost everyone he met, and was rapidly turning into the castle guard's nightmare on the training yard.

"You forgot about Rayya's lessons, brother," Farkas replied, "She can heal broken bones with a wave of her hand."

Baelor's face fell, "Oh… yeah… right."

A deep, booming laugh filled the courtyard, turning all four heads to Erik Stormcrown as he walked out in his ebony armor, similar in build to Vilkas' steel Wolf armor, but where there was a howling wolf on the former Companion's armor, there was a roaring dragon with its maw pointing straight out from Erik's chest. The Lord of Dragonstone was holding a broad diamond shaped ebony shield with the white dragon of his House's sigil molded directly into the metal in his left hand, while he gave lazy swings with the huge ebony battleaxe, Wuuthrad.

"Don't worry, I'll not break any bones," Erik told his sons, "Your mother would have my head!"

"Not your manhood?" Vilkas asked his old friend.

"Oh I already have that!" Lynesse japed, "Why do you think we stopped at four children?"

"And this morning?" her husband asked.

The Lady of Dragonstone smiled back, "Well every now and then I like to take it out of the glass cage and have some fun!"

"Gross," Farkas said.

"Yeah you really don't need to fill us in on that," Baelor told his parents before turning to Farkas, "Mother was already making lewd jokes before you got here."

"Well why don't you two take your mind off of it and get Farkas warmed up while I test our good Knight Vilkas here. Make sure he's up to form," Erik told his sons, pointing his head towards a massive claymore still in its scabbard leaning against the east wall of the stone courtyard.

Farkas and Vilkas both walked over to the wall, the Captain of the Guard putting the blunt training sword away and grabbing the claymore while Lynesse's youngest child grabbed a blunted steel battleaxe.

The knight unsheathed the giant claymore, revealing the smoky surface of the Valyrian… no, Skyforge Lynesse had to remind herself, steel. Every house wanted a Valyrian steel weapon to its name. House Hightower once had a Valyrian steel sword, Vigilance, though it had been lost for some time. House Lannister was much the same, and any house that did have a Valyrian steel sword was considered unbelievably lucky, and here House Stormcrown was in possession of two.

Technically the both weapons were actually Skyforge steel, but according to the practiced eye of Erik, the difference between the two was exclusively the location in which they were forged. The spell bonded steel was dark and smoky in coloration, lighter than other swords of the same size, and stronger than even the best castle forged steel with an edge that would never dull.

Also the massive claymore didn't actually belong to House Stormcrown, as it was Vilkas' sword from his days as a Companion, but the sword Storm's Wrath was forged for Erik as a second weapon in his days as the Harbinger of the Companions, and actually belonged to House Stormcrown.

The four combatants took their spots opposite their sparring partner as Lynesse simply took a seat on the bench at the edge of the courtyard to watch her boys train, knowing that her daughters would soon be down to do the same.

Just as the first sounds of steel ringing echoed through the courtyard, something on the mountain top behind the great castle shifted, drawing the sky blue gaze of Lady Stormcrown to the dark obsidian peak.

A giant ruby dragon shifted again as it basked in the sun. Odahviing would sleep through the day, out of sight from the people in the city, and only visible to people in the castle who knew what they were looking for. Lynesse smiled before turning her head back to the four men clashing in the courtyard.

Today was turning out to be a wonderful day.

 **Gasp! This isn't the crossover I promised in my other story! This is actually a story I have wanted to do for quite some time, just hadn't really worked up the courage to do it yet. There are a lot of Skyrim GOT crossovers out there, but hopefully this is one of the more original attempts. It's not the trueborn son of Robert angle, though I am a huge fan of Son of the Seven Kingdoms. It's a great fic I recommend it, and it's not the 'Daedra sends the Dragonborn to Westeros to stop the White Walkers'. Well it's kind of like that, but most of those stories start with the Dragonborn showing up right before the first book/season, or in the middle of the series.**

 **Now some of you are saying, hey Ranschaj, what the hell are you talking about? According to the ages of the kids your story is starting right before the first book! WRONG! This is just the set up chapter. Sort of like I'm showing you the destination before we start the journey kind of thing. The next chapter will take place eighteen years before this chapter, and the story will continue from there. Unless you guys decide you don't want me to continue this story, in which case I'll stop writing it, but I would like you to know that I've had a lot of fun writing this chapter, in fact it only took the weekend to knock this baby out with zero work, barring some PM's with other writers, before hand.**

 **For those of you who are desperately waiting for an update for Mass Emile, you can stop holding out hope. That story's dead. Noble Intentions is following, unfortunately. It was perhaps my best work, but the problem lies in the fact that I don't actually like the Marvel Universe. I mean Deadpool's cool, so is Captain America, but I honestly hate, hate, HATE a lot of the other characters in Marvel. They're just so… douchey.**

 **JL:Dragonborn is obviously still alive, as is the Spartan and the Dragon, though you obviously will have wait for my stupidly long update times, though hopefully they'll be shorter than they were before. Obviously my promises are worth approximately the same as human feces, but it's the best I can do…**

 **Please drop a review, let me know what you think of the OC's children, of the Dragonborn's wife, and especially about the two Skyrim characters I've brought in, Vilkas of the Companions and Brelyna Maryon from the College of Winterhold.**

 **So again, review, because I don't want to write what you guys don't want to read.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Yes, I know. I am the best, and am practically a god amongst men. I understand my own greatness, and would like to let everyone know, that I have in no way let this go to my head. By the way I have typed this entire chapter on a gilded throne made exclusively from the body parts of the endangered Bengal tiger.**

 **Or… whatever.**

 **Anyway here's the chapter. Enjoy.**

 _Eighteen years ago, in another time and another place…_

A towering fifteen foot monster straight from the worst nightmares of the most demented minds emerged from a pool of black bile so thick one could walk on it if they were quick enough. The creature was deformed, with a mouth that ran vertically up its fish like face, with wet, bulbous eyes sitting on the end of fleshy, greasy appendages on either side of the monster's head. Its torso, arms, and legs were covered in greasy rags holding haphazardly placed plates of black steel over slimy, scaly flesh.

This creature, this lurker, was made to intimidate, frighten, and above all else, kill with efficiency and horror. None of which it was able to accomplish, however, as a massive, double sided battleaxe cut into the lurker's leg, right at the knee joint, dropping the monstrosity to one knee.

Wuuthrad came around again, this time in an upwards arc to catch the creature's gilled throat, spraying the disgusting black/green mucus that took the place of blood. The lurker reared up just a little, clutching at its throat to stem the bleeding, only to catch the huge ebony battleaxe in the side of its head, crushing its skull and spilling brains over the greasy cobblestone ground.

Erik Stormcrown, Thane of Whiterun, Solitude, and Markarth, Harbinger of the Companions, Alum of the College of Winterhold, and the Last Dragonborn turned from his latest kill to observe his surroundings.

The sky above the Last Dragonborn was no sky ever seen in the world of the living, nor one seen in the world of the dead. Oily blacks and puss yellow battled in the clouds that covered the sky from one horizon to the other, giving the world an eternally gloomy and downcast look.

On those horizons, spires shot up into the sickly sky, made of the same stone Erik was standing on, and covered in the same disgusting grease. Bridges made from what almost looked like some sort of flower petals, though as with everything else in this unique hell they were sickly, oily, and disgusting to look at let alone actually stand on, connected the spires. Creatures like the one he had just slain along with others that looked like floating balls of rags with tentacle heads and bony arms sticking out dotted the structures, disappearing and reappearing using the oily grease pools as some sort of transport.

Speaking of oily grease pools, there happened to be an entire ocean spanning the entire realm full of the exact same vile liquid. The spires and towers that dotted the horizon of this world all jutted out from the ocean, where they had their foundation one could only guess, as no sane person would ever go looking for the bottom of these structures.

Immediately around the man there were dragons, lots of them. The normally majestic beasts circled the summit Erik found himself on like vultures circling a corpse, though the Last Dragonborn was considerably more dangerous to these dragons than any corpse had ever been to carrion feeders.

There were more of the black pools around the Thane, but they remained still, either not holding anymore of the foul creatures, or choosing not to release them at the moment. Regardless, they were far from Erik's mind as he brought Wuuthrad around to catch the greasy bone blade of his opponent, throwing the strike wide. A follow up strike hit nothing but air as Miraak leapt back, blue and black robes fluttering with the deceptively athletic move.

Miraak, the First Dragonborn, covered from neck to toes in robes that somehow remained clean in the oily, greasy environment of Apocrypha, and glittered in the gloomy light with the promise of powerful magic. In the Dragon Priest's right hand he twirled a staff made from the same greasy flesh that had made up the lurker's entire body. The tip of the staff was fashioned in the image of tentacles circling an orb of pure magical energy that glowed black with maliciousness. In his left hand was the same greasy bone blade he had used to strike at the Last Dragonborn.

"Calling upon servants," Erik's commanding baritone boomed around the Summit of Apocrypha, "Can't handle me yourself?"

"I admit, you impress me, Last," Miraak's insidious voice slithered through the chokingly thick air of the alien dimension, "But you will not stop me."

Miraak stared at Erik for a moment longer. The half Nord half Redguard was a towering pillar of physical strength, able to wield the giant battleaxe Wuuthrad with one hand while the other held a diamond ebony shield with the white diamond dragon of Tiber Septim emblazoned across the front. The huge man's armor was darker than the oily waters of Apocrypha and styled after the wolf armor of the Companions of Jorrvaskr, though one might be able to call this particular incarnation dragon armor. The Last Dragonborn's face was covered up as was Miraak's, though Erik's was covered by a pitch black helmet that belonged on an Imperial Centurion's head and held a vertical crest of dragon spikes running from forehead to the back of the neck.

Breaking the moment of stillness, the Last lunged for the First with a speed that should not grace such a huge man. Wuuthrad came in a sweeping diagonal arc and met Miraak's bonelike sword. Miraak's sword was made from the rib of a massive creature that once roamed the ocean of Apocrypha, one that had lived since time immemorial, and was nearly as old as the master of the realm itself. Needless to say, the sword was nearly unbreakable, and had delivered the swift, mortal punishment to many of the enslaved dragons that had failed the First in his thousands of years of existence.

Wuuthrad was relatively newly forged, having been shattered until almost two years ago, and had existed in its broken state since man had first come to the shores of Tamriel. But the blade had been reforged, not just with the fire of Skyforge, but with the fire of all the previous Harbingers of the Companion's greatness.

So when the two ancient weapons met on the Summit, both being swung by men who would go down as perhaps the two most powerful individuals of the Fourth Era, the sound was horrendous.

Erik's greater strength tossed the bone blade aside and brought Wuuthrad around for an overhead chop. The former Dragon Priest leapt to one side, avoiding the strike that obliterated greasy cobblestone, and lashed out with the head of his staff, aiming for the Last's helmeted head.

This blow met the powerful metal, ringing Erik's ears. The move would have disoriented a lesser warrior, but the Harbinger of the Companions managed to recover enough to lash out with his shield, catching Miraak's staff hand and knocking the Dragon Priest's defenses aside so he might plant his right foot and lunge forward.

The First tried to plant his feet and brace himself against the powerful warrior's charge, but only succeeded in having his feet slide on the greasy stone as he found himself nearing the edge of the summit rapidly.

Calling upon a millennia of magical experience, combined with the experience of having been imprisoned within the realm of Hermaeus Mora, Miraak disappeared in a swirl of black tendrils just before Erik reached the ledge, almost forcing the huge man to run right off of it. Wuuthrad hooked onto an outcropping of stone, managing to stop the Last just before he fell off of the edge.

Above the Summit, another swirl of black tendrils dropped Miraak onto one of the dragons circling the artificial peak. The robed man looked down at the platform, judging the man standing on it before pointing to a dragon and waving it forward.

A bronze wyrm folded its wings and began to plummet towards the Last, maw opened wide as words formed and were expelled…

YOL TOOR SHUL!

Fire engulfed the entire Summit, blocking anyone's view from the man who was presumably being cooked alive inside the inferno. Dragon fire was hot enough to melt stone and steel alike, and if you were caught in it, you were dead.

That was exactly the thought the dragon had as it passed much lower than it should have after the fire stopped eschewing from its mouth. It may have been the dragon's last thought as a doublesided ax head came from the smoky platform and sank into its neck, dragging along the reptile's body as the powerful and deadly ax cut through scales strong enough to stop ballistae bolts and quenched the hot stone beneath with blood.

The body slumped to the ground and smashed into mezzanine, toppling pillars and stopping the scaly corpse from dropping into the inky ocean below. The dragon cadaver began to glow, scales dropped to the ground as flesh burned with an almost holy light, swirling around the corpse before shooting towards Erik Stormcrown who was standing in the center of the Summit, armor smoking, but otherwise unharmed.

"IS THAT THE BEST YOU CAN DO?!"

Miraak grunted once in amusement before raising his sword hand for a solid second and dropping it to point the tip at the Last Dragonborn, "Kill him."

An icy blue wyrm snapped at Erik, who responded by leaping to one side and driving the bottom point of his shield into the creature's eye, not killing or even wounding the great beast, but certainly distracting it. Unfortunately the Harbinger was unable to capitalize as an olive green dragon tail smashed into his side, launching the Last straight into the jaws of a great bronze.

This morsel was not so tasty, as the beast discovered. Erik pulled a Skyforge steel dagger from his left shoulder plate as the dragon prepared to crush the warrior between its jaws and slammed the pointed tip into the hollow nasal cavity on the wyrm's elongated snout.

The bronze opened its mouth in to scream and in an attempt to let go of the Last, an attempt that failed. The Harbinger put his plated boots on the creature's lower jaw and his left hand on the upper jaw to force it open further as his right pulled a Skyforge longsword from its scabbard. Erik reached deep into the still screaming reptile's mouth and plunged the blade through the roof of its mouth.

The screaming stopped immediately, and Erik felt his stomach leap into his throat as gravity forced him back towards the Summit. He rolled from the toothy maw just before it hit the ground. In one smooth motion he sheathed Storm's Wrath and snatched Wuuthrad back from the ground.

A great two handed throw of the ancient battleaxe saw the ebony blades digging deep into the icy blue's shoulder, destroying the wyrm's ability to fly and causing it to rear back in pain. Erik leapt up the dragon's slick scales and gripped Wuuthrad's long handle and ripped it out with a fountain of blood while pushing the blue back with a powerful shove of the warrior's thick legs. The dragon tried to keep itself from falling with its tail but unfortunately found nothing but open air and soon found itself toppling off the Summit and down into the vile ocean below.

Erik hit the ground and immediately dove for his shield, coming out of a roll holding it facing the green just as a stream of ice and razor snow engulfed his position. Ebony was made through the extreme pressures and temperatures found in volcanoes, and as such was stronger than steel and provided excellent protection from fire and the heat produced, but was unfortunately quite useless at blocking out the chilling winds of the wyrm's icy breath.

That's why Erik was so glad he had just spent the last five years of his life in the coldest part of Tamriel, trekking through snow drifts able to swallow mammoths whole, climbing mountains in blizzards, and plunging himself into the Sea of Ghosts after some long lost Atmoran longship in the search of treasure, preparing himself for just such a moment.

The ice and snow finally relented and the Last's chilled muscles may have been fractionally slower in responding than normal, but he still managed to move with speed that belonged to a sabre cat, not this giant of a man. Wuuthrad came in from the side, shearing olive green scales for the dragon's snout before that same snout came in and snapped at Erik, though it only succeeded in receiving a mouthful of diamond hard ebony shield.

The warrior was swift in taking advantage of the wyrm's mistake, grabbing a hold of the curved horn on the left side of the dragon's head and hauling himself atop its head. A great chop with Wuuthrad chipped bone on the green's nose, causing the creature to shake its head in shock and pain. Managing to keep his balance, Erik swung Wuuthrad again, this time into the strong muscle that worked the great beast's jaws.

The strike severed the muscle, causing the right side of the dragon's mouth to go limp, with one half still closed and the other half hanging loosely, at least it was until Wuuthrad dug into the beasts neck, right at the base of its skull, killing the dragon.

The other two were already burned up and their souls swirling, but rather than being absorbed by Erik, they were instead racing towards something behind the warrior…

MUL QAH DIIV!

Erik whirled around just in time for a super powered fist to land a glancing blow on his chest plate. It wasn't solid enough to damage the super strong metal, but more than enough to crack two ribs in the Last's chest and send him flying across the platform where he smashed into a greasy pillar.

Miraak was on his downed form in an instant, raining blow after blow onto the helmeted head. The first strike dented the right eye of the face mask, the next one caved in the left mouth. All of these blows were stopped before they could reach flesh, but they did bounce Erik's head off the stone beneath them, and that certainly wasn't doing the Last any favors.

In a desperate move, the Harbinger shifted his head, and Miraak's fist buried itself in cobblestone. Erik thrust his damaged helmet forward, not far enough to strike the Dragon Priest's masked face, but far enough for one of the dragon talon's on the crest to reach through the eyehole. The talon missed the eye but cut a jagged trench through the eyebrow and hooked onto the mask, pulling it from the man's head as the First reeled back from the Last.

Groaning in pain and nursing a possible concussion, Erik managed to rip his helmet off and get to his feet. Swirling energy still permeated the air, apparently undecided as to which Dragonborn it should go to, until the Last managed to stumble into it, making the decision for the spectral force that once gave a great scaly beast unimaginable power.

The concussion cleared almost instantly, along with the cracked ribs and split skull, giving the Harbinger the clarity to see that he hadn't been the only one to benefit from the devouring of the dragon souls as Miraak's forehead was clear of the nasty cut, and there was a definite clear look in his eyes, as though he had just slept a full night and just awoken ready for anything.

MUL QAH DIIV!

A bright, powerful aura surrounded Erik as he felt power surge into his limbs, clarity into his mind, and a deep rumbling in his chest.

Both cloaked in these powerful auras, the First and the Last Dragonborn began their duel of the fates in earnest.

…

 _Several hours later…_

Miraak hit the floor in a heap, the mask was still missing from his face, robes in tatters, and a steady stream of blood leaking from a variety of injuries all over his body. Across the Summit, Erik was only in marginally better condition, being that his armor was for the most part intact and he was still standing, though his already crooked nose was bent at an even worse angle, and had painted his face and front red with blood.

"It's over, Miraak," the Last Dragonborn's voice was thick with exhaustion and nasally with the congestion that comes with having one's nose broken.

The First managed to roll to his back, his face pinched with pain and teeth stained red with his own blood, "Over? No, Last… This fight may have ended, but we will meet again."

Erik strode forward, dropping the twisted remains of his ebony shield and raised a remarkably unscarred Wuuthrad above his head in both hands, "In Oblivion, perhaps…"

Just as the huge battleaxe was about to descend for the killing blow, the slimy scaled tail of a serpentine dragon slammed into his midsection, further denting the already damaged ebony plate and tossing the large man across the platform above Apocrypha.

"Sahrotaar… My ever loyal slave…"

Erik pulled himself from the ruined floor of the Summit just in time to see the open jaws of Sahrotaar ready to crush the last life from his broken body. Even through his blood filled broken nose the warrior could smell the stench of decay rolling off the massive, malformed jaws, and he could see the slimy saliva drip from its teeth.

What he saw next was a much more welcome sight.

Over a ton of raw muscle, ruby scales, and fury slammed into the slippery serpentine dragon, causing Sahrotaar's jaws to snap shut on nothing and open again in pain as predatory jaws with enough strength to crush a mammoth's skull in one bite latched onto its neck.

The slimy dragon squirmed enough to avoid the full crushing power of the terrible red's maw, and finally managed to break free enough to drop off the Summit and take to the skies. Though Erik knew exactly who it was that saved him, the Last reveled in the sight of his massive scaly friend.

"Odahviing… My ever loyal friend…"

Sahrotaar came around to let loose a blast of razor snow at the terrible red, only to be met with a gout of Dragon Fire that trucked right through the cold front and bathed the slimy scales of the serpentine in a heat so intense the mucus blistered and boiled away.

With a roar of pain the serpentine tilted its wings and came around for another pass, this time going directly for the terrible red. Odahviing gave a powerful beat of its wings that buffeted the Summit and launched his massive frame into the air directly for Sahrotaar.

The two collided with colossal force in midair. Sahrotaar's bigger, but softer body pushed the red back, but Odahviing's much harder body did more damage. The smaller dragon had to fall away from the larger one, falling into a dive before snapping his wings open and rocketing around the Summit to attack the serpentine once more.

The two dragons lined up for another midair collision, set to be much more destructive than their first, but at the last second Odahviing changed the angle of his wings and swung his talons forth to grab Sahrotaar's neck and face. Momentum forced the larger dragon free of the red's grip, but the talons did their work on the soft tissue, tearing deep gashes along the snake like throat and pulling chunks from its face.

Blinded by pain and blood, Sahrotaar could no longer maintain its altitude, and promptly smashed into one of the many structures dotting the oily black waters of Apocrypha. Erik just managed to crawl over to the edge to look down at where the serpentine had crashed just in time to see Odahviing go in for the killing blow.

Sahrotaar tried one last desperate attack, its mouth opening wide preparing to Shout in defiance…

RII VAAZ…

FUS RO DAH!

Blue energy erupted from the red's mouth before the larger dragon could finish its Shout, slamming into Sahrotaar's body and slamming it back into the stone column and breaking the serpentine's body. The slimy wyrm continued to struggle despite the fact its wings were no longer in any condition to fly and its legs were bent at unnatural angles.

Powerful predatory jaws put an end to Sahrotaar's struggles as Odahviing latched onto its head and squeezed. A sickening crunch could be heard by Erik all the way at the Summit, and the pool of blood and brains could be seen by the Last Dragonborn.

Huffing in relief as he watched one of his best friends roar into the sky, letting loose a jet of fire into the polluted sky of Apocrypha, Erik turned back to Miraak, only to find that he was no longer where he had been only minutes before. The only evidence he had ever been there was a pool of blood where his broken body had been, and there was no way the former Dragon Priest was in any shape to move around and walk. His magic had been depleted, his bones shattered, and his organs hemorrhaged, he was due a painful, agonizing, slow death from those injuries alone.

The shock of this discovery, combined with cumulative blood loss, broken ribs, and the concussion resulting from hours of trading super powered blows with a demigod was too much for Erik. Blackness crept onto the edges of his vision before finally claiming him and forcing him to the ground.

"It seems your task is yet incomplete, Champion…"

…

"Any change?" a young, but stern and sullen voice broke through the cloudy haze plaguing Erik's mind.

"He still lies in a deep sleep, though his wounds have completely healed," replied an older, wizened voice.

There was some shuffling and Erik was dimly aware of something draped over his body being lifted off, presumably so whoever had been asking after his condition could see the truth of the older man's words.

"Already?" the young voice sounded as though he had just witnessed the impossible, "He was hand in hand with the Stranger three days ago and now all that's left is scars?"

"I cannot explain it, My Lord Stannis. It would have been a miracle if he had survived a fortnight, but to have healed in just three days. There might be unseen damage, however, for he still lingers in sleep."

The Dragonborn managed a strangled groan.

"It appears he slumbers no more," 'Lord Stannis' told the older man.

A cold clammy hand pressed itself against his forehead and his cheek and pulled back his eyelid. Erik was immediately greeted by the view of an older man's wrinkled face peering down at him with dark eyes and a concerned look. The half Redguard's own chocolate orb swiveled around to look the old man in the eye before he managed to summon enough strength to move one of his heavy hands to swat the other man's own clammy ones away.

The old man leaned back and Erik was allowed a better look at his surroundings. Dark and stuffy as rooms go, but dry and clean, judging by all of the vials of liquids and surgical tools decorating the shelves and walls of the room, the young warrior would have to guess that this was some sort of healing chamber.

Then there were the occupants themselves, only two other people besides Erik. The old man was slumped back on a chair, staring in shock as the not so mortally wounded man managed to sit up, letting the blankets falling off his bare torso. The old man in question owed most of his slumping posture to the heavy chain draped across his shoulders, hanging low across his chest and belly, all over the top of well worn brown robes as thick and rough as burlap.

Next to the old man stood a young man, probably only fifteen years old by Erik's rough estimate, with thick black hair, bright blue eyes, and the sunken features of someone with far too much weight on his shoulders. The boy was tall for being so young, easily topping the old man, even if he wasn't sitting, though he was still a fair bit shorter than the man he was observing so intently.

"You are awake," 'Stannis' said to the larger man.

Erik rolled his neck, listening to the familiar popping and cracking that always accompanied such an action, "It would appear so."

"Who are you?" the boy asked, conjuring all the authority he could muster, sounding a little ridiculous considering he was still in the awkward transition between the high boy's voice and the deep voice of a man.

"I might ask the same," the bigger man replied, ignoring the fact he was naked as he stood from the bed, towering over the boy and old man.

"I ask the questions here," the boy ground out. In the dark silence of the room, Erik had to believe even the old man could hear the boy grinding his teeth.

"Must be an awfully dull place then," the huge man said indignantly, "How about we trade questions? You can even start. That sound fair?"

"You've already asked two," the young lord growled, "So in all fairness I think I should start with three questions. Does _that_ sound fair?"

"You have two left, and yes."

Blue eyes narrowed dangerously, but the boy relented, "Fine. Who are you?"

"Erik Stormcrown."

"I don't recognize any House by the name of Stormcrown. Where are you from?"

"An interesting question. I was born in Hammerfell, spent most of my life there, but I spent the last four years in Skyrim. The last place I was at that I can remember is the island of Solstheim in Morrowind," Erik answered honestly, "My turn. Who are you?"

"Lord Stannis Baratheon," Stannis replied coolly, "Castellan of Storm's End in my brother's absence. I've never heard of Hammerfell, Skyrim, or Solstheim. Are you from Essos?"

"I don't know what Essos is, nor have I ever heard of Storm's End, so it would seem unlikely that I'm from Essos. Where is Storm's End?"

"In the Stormlands, one of the Seven Kingdom's of Westeros," Stannis replied with the same clipped tone that both were using in their effort to transfer information in the quickest and most efficient manner possible.

The boy then narrowed his eyes again, clearly contemplating something before opening his mouth and speaking slowly and seriously, "Are you a Targaryen supporter?"

Erik blinked, who in Oblivion is Targaryen?

"No."

"Very well," Lord Stannis said curtly, "Maester Cressen, fetch Ser Erik some clothes and food. Bring him to my solar once he is done here."

"My lord," Cressen began, "Perhaps it is unwise too…"

"I believe him," Stannis cut off the old man, "He's no Targaryen. He doesn't even know what a Targaryen is."

 _I'll have to ask about that later on,_ Erik thought to himself as he watched the young Lord Stannis walk out of the room followed shortly by the maester.

…

"You were found in the fields just outside Storm's End," Stannis told the Dragonborn, pointing out a window at a grassy field beyond the massive castle's ancient walls, "Armor and body broken. My men had thought to strip you of your weapons and coin and leave you there."

"I appreciate your compassion," Erik replied dryly.

"Don't, if we had left you out there you could have been picked up by the Reacher army," the boy said, nodding his head towards the huge green banners decorated by a large golden rose, "or you would have died painlessly, in your sleep. Not stuck inside a castle until we starve to death, or until the fleet anchored outside our port decides to finally break the siege and smash our walls."

"Is it really that bad?"

Stannis' shoulders slumped with the weight of the situation, "Not yet, but it will be soon. The food stores are all but empty thanks to my brother taking the entire military might of the Stormlands north with him."

"I suppose that means you don't have the men to try and break this siege yourself."

"No, in fact I have a few dozen men at arms, no knights to speak of," the boy seemed to further deflate under the pressure, "that's why I kept you alive. My men wanted to leave you out in that field because you'd just be another mouth to feed if you did live, but I knew we'll need every sword we can get."

Erik nodded, agreeing with the boy's logic. Despite himself, the veteran of Skyrim's Civil War found himself impressed with the lad. He clearly knew something of tactics, and was displaying an impressive will for one so young.

"I owe you my life, regardless of what you say," the big man told Stannis, silencing the lad's retort with a wave of his hand, "I will help you in any way I can, but I first need my arms and armor."

"Your weapons are in the armory, your armor is in the maester's tower. Cressen was hoping to study the metal it's made from."

"Ebony, iron caught in the heart of dying volcanoes," Erik informed casually.

Stannis raised a brow, "I'll be sure to inform him."

…

"Tell me another story!" a little boy, no more than seven years, shouted in glee as he watched Erik beat the dents out of his armor pieces.

The large man smiled at Renly Baratheon, finding the boy to be just like many his age. Curious, oblivious, and easy company, he was a polar opposite of his older brother who was serious, stern, and rigid. Still, Erik couldn't complain. Stannis had just told the Dragonborn everything about the civil war going on outside the castle walls and through all of Westeros.

Erik still didn't have all of the facts, but to be fair, he wasn't telling Stannis everything either. There had been an unspoken agreement that they would tell each other only what the other needed to know. Stannis knew Erik was a foreigner and a highly skilled warrior with more battle experience in his twenty years than most men had in forty and Erik knew all the factions in this rebellion, how it got started, and the situation directly outside the castle.

He still couldn't be sure if Renly had been sent by Stannis to collect as much information about Erik as possible, but he was pretty sure the little boy was ultimately harmless. All he did was ask for stories about Skyrim, and Hammerfell.

"How about the story behind Wuuthrad?"

The little boy furrowed his brow, "What's a woo-brad?"

Erik laughed as he banged another dent from his breastplate, "Wuuthrad, little one. It's my ax."

Renly's gaze immediately snapped over to the giant battleaxe leaning against the wall. The weapon was easily more than twice as tall as the boy, and probably weighed a few stones more, but the way the young lad stared at it, Erik could be justified in worrying that the boy would run off with it.

"It's big…" he said slowly.

Erik laughed, a low rumble building deep in his chest, "And sharp, little man, careful with your fingers."

The little lord had reached a hand out tentatively to touch the battleaxe, but retracted his tiny paw immediately upon hearing the warrior's words, "Tell me about woothad."

Laughing at the little boy's trouble with Wuuthrad, Erik finished banging the last dent out of his breast plate and moved over to oil bath to quench the hot metal and let the newly reformed breast plate harden into its normal, almost unbreakable, state.

"The story of Wuuthrad goes back over a thousand years ago, when humans first settled onto the continent of my birth."

"Who lived there before?" the little lord asked curiously.

"Elves mostly, though in the swamps of the Black Marsh there were the reptilian Argonians, and in the deserts of Elswyr there live a people who look like cats that walk on their hind legs!"

Renly was obviously engrossed in the story when he let out a long 'whoa' at the Dragonborn's words. Erik didn't think anyone else here would believe a word he was saying, and anyone overhearing this conversation would most likely just think he was entertaining the little lord with fanciful tales from storybooks, and that was just fine with the man. Renly believed him, only because he was a child, but it didn't matter to Erik, he was just glad he had someone to talk to.

"Ysgramor, the greatest warrior that ever walked the realm of men, fled his homeland of Atmora, which was in the midst of a great and terrible civil war," the huge man said as he pulled the breast plate from the oil bath and placed it on the drying rack next to several other pieces of armor that he had repaired, then grabbed the dented helmet and tossed it into the forge, letting the metal heat up before he worked on it.

"If he was a great warrior," the little Baratheon asked slowly, "Then why did he run away from a war?"

"Because war is terrible, little man," Erik said seriously, "And a war that turns brother against brother is especially heinous."

"Like this war?"

"Just like this one," the veteran said solemnly.

"Getting back to the story, Ysgramor led a large settlement of Atmorans to the northern shore of Tamriel, a place called Skyrim, and settled alongside the current inhabitants, the Falmer, Snow Elves."

Erik pulled the helmet from the forge, the metal was hot, though far from soft, and put it over a solid iron replica of a head, "At first there was peace between the Elves and Men, but it wasn't long before the Falmer grew weary of their new neighbors, and betrayed them."

The dents on the helmet itself was the easy part, the face mask would be more difficult, "The Snow Elves came into the human settlement of Saarthal under the banner of peace, then slaughtered every man, woman, and child they came across. More than twenty thousand people, killed before they could even put up a struggle by the same people they had once called friends, all because the elves felt threatened by the newcomers, and didn't have the courage to face the problem head on."

Renly was staring at Erik wide eyed, totally engrossed in the story as the man in front of him worked at reshaping the facemask into something that would actually fit over his face, rather than bearing the dents of Miraak's fists.

"It is said that when Ysgramor heard the fate of Saarthal he cried tears of pure ebony, so great was his grief. Ysgramor's son turned the tears of grief into a weapon of rage, making a battleaxe so great, the elfin empire that stretched all of Tamriel would shatter before this weapon. That, little man, is how Wuuthrad came to be."

"What happened to is gremmor?" the lad asked after a moment of silence spent absorbing the tale.

"That's a tale for another time, little man," Erik told him, "perhaps tomorrow I'll tell you about what happened after the Night of Tears, but I believe your brother thinks it's time for bed."

"You would be correct Ser Erik," Stannis said from the doorway, "Renly, to your room, tomorrow you will attend your lessons rather than bother the good Ser."

"But…"

"Am I understood Renly?"

The little boy looked down at the floor dejectedly, "Yes brother."

"Good, now to your rooms," Stannis said with that same stern, commanding voice that he had used on Maester Cressen. Clearly the young man was still learning how to be a commander, and had unfortunately decided to take what little he knew and apply it to his younger brother. Still, it was not Erik's place to judge, he himself had cost the lives of troops under his command with an overly lax command style. It had taken him some time before he was able to lead troops effectively in Skyrim's civil war.

"See you tomorrow, little man," the big man said with a wink to the little boy, considerably brightening Renly's mood as he dashed off towards his rooms, laughing the whole way as though it were some sort of game.

"He's a nice kid," Erik said idly as he moved the repaired helmet to the oil bath, watching as the thick liquid steamed and bubbled at the intrusion of hot metal, "He's spoiled and needy, but still a nice kid."

"Robert always showered him with love, as did everyone else," the young lord ground out, "leaving me to be the villain, forcing him to bed, making him eat all of his greens, taking him to his lessons."

"As you say, Lord Stannis," Erik replied neutrally, grabbing one of the dried armor pieces and fitting the leather pads back onto them, so they might be comfortable to wear for long periods of time.

Stannis' eyes narrowed dangerously, as he felt there was more to the man's neutral reply than what was indicated, but let it slide in favor of another topic, "How did you temper your armor? My quartermaster said the smiths had tried to smelt the pieces of your armor, but they never so much as softened."

"When properly quenched in an oil bath, ebony forms a shell on the outside that is resistant to any flame, but needs to be stripped off in an acid bath before it can be reforged."

"We don't have any acid here," Stannis said, clearly confused as to how the man had gotten his hands on caustic fluids.

Erik smiled, "Your maester was kind enough to give me some sulfur from his storerooms, I managed to make an acid bath from that."

Stannis narrowed his eyes even further, and the other man honestly thought for a full second that Lord Baratheon had actually closed his eyes, "Those stories you told Renly, was there any truth to them?"

Erik leaned back as he regarded the boy in front of him, "The only truth anyone can be sure of is that there was a city called Saarthal, there was a man named Ysgramor, and Wuuthrad was created after the Night of Tears."

"Elves," Stannis said disbelievingly, "What's next? Grumkins and snarks?"

"I don't know what those are," Erik answered honestly, "but they sound unpleasant."

"Why tell those stories to Renly?" Stannis asked, "His mind is already filled with nonsense, why add more?"

"They are the chronicles of my peoples history," the large man answered defensively, "They remind us of where we've been, and provide lessons that apply to many situations."

"What lessons are there to learn from this… Night of Tears," the young Lord said derisively.

"That the banner of peace is the ultimate weapon of war," came the serious reply, "You can end a war with it by making friends, or destroy your enemy before they even know there's going to be a fight, it's also a lesson to always look twice, that not everything is at it seems."

"You're telling me that one lesson is to use the peace banner to ambush and slaughter your enemy dishonorably?"

"That's one way to see it," Erik admitted, "But think of it this way. You have just under a thousand men in this castle, most are peasants who've straightened their scythes on the orders of some lord, Robert, whom they've never even seen. Some probably don't even know the man's name."

The warrior finished with his last piece of plate armor and moved to the ebony ringmail undercoat, hoping to mend the holes left by Miraak's sword, "Outside these walls lies an army of just over thirty thousand soldiers. Most are still peasants who have never held a sword before, I'll grant you that, but there are knights as well, not to mention sellswords who have killed more men each than most here ever will."

Erik threw a couple of broken rings into the acid bath, "You're outmatched, you're outnumbered, and with that fleet outside your harbor, you've also been outmaneuvered. The only advantage you have are thick castle walls and the enemy's arrogance."

Stannis looked down, his face pinched with thought before looking back up at the huge man with a question in his eyes, "What are you saying?"

"You said it yourself, the siege started recently, and you've still enough food to hold out for seven moons, but there's no guarantee that your brother will win this war by then, or that he'll win at all."

"I have my orders…"

"Orders won't save you," Erik told the young man, "Think of Renly, I know you love him, despite your 'villain' status. Can you really watch him starve to death knowing that you could have done something to save him?"

"There's no guarantee that any sort of attack would work," Stannis said, still denying the chance at taking action.

"Oh there certainly isn't," the veteran said, "In fact any sort of organized attack would likely fail tremendously, but think of the Night of Tears, and the lessons one can learn from it."

"These, Atmorans, were arrogant and cocksure, and they paid for it when the elves attacked," Stannis said slowly as a realization dawned on him, "The Reacher lords are just as arrogant, likely much more so, the Fat Flower especially…"

"What would you have me do, My Lord?" Erik asked with a smile.

"I'll assemble the men in the great hall," the lord said with conviction, "Finish your repairs and join us immediately, we will need you."

 **Aaaaaaaaaaaand there you have it.**

 **I'm not entirely happy with this chapter. I can't help but feel it came out weird with the pacing, and where it started and ended, but it covered everything I wanted it to cover.**

 **If you're wondering what the H is up with me just glossing over the entire exchange of information between Stannis and Erik where Erik learned everything he needed to know about Westeros and the rebellion going on, I know it's important stuff, but most of us already know it, and if you never actually watched GOT or read ASOIAF, and just read this because you like torturing yourself with poorly written fan fiction, don't worry, all the necessary information will bleed in through the rest of the chapters. You'll just have to pick up the whole story like someone watching the show or reading the books would, one piece at a time as the author coughs them up.**

 **As for the Miraak fight scene, you may have noticed that I removed his mask, then did not describe what he looks like. I wonder why I would do that? Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.**

 **Also, I left Miraak alive?! I wonder why I would do THAT?! HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!?**

 **Another thing, WHERE DID ODAHVIING COME FROM? AND WHERE DID HE GO?! Don't worry about it, I got this stuff figured out, and you'll be let in on my master plan eventually.**

 **One last thing regarding this chapter. If you're wondering if I've given my Dragonborn an enhanced healing factor since his potentially mortal wounds healed in three days and he didn't slip into a coma after falling asleep with a concussion, consider who was responsible for sending the Dragonborn to Storm's End. Do you really think Hermaeus Mora would send his champion off with potentially mortal wounds without making sure he would recover? I assure you, he'll heal normally from now on.**

 **One last thing for the whole story before I sign off. I'm having trouble deciding what to do with Vilkas. Mainly I want to set him up with a sexy MILF of Westeros, but am having trouble as to who… Not that it's an immediate concern, as he and Brelyna are quite a few chapters from entering the story. I've already discussed one possibility with Angry Lil Elf, and he brought up some valid concerns, so I'd like your opinions on any possible ladies. Again, not that it's important.**

 **Please review, I don't want to write, what you don't want to read.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Very short chapter here. Mostly just hoping to set up the rest of Robert's Rebellion, or at least the portions that will involve Erik. Still, there's going to be a large diversion from canon in this chapter alone, and the rest of the story will go off the canon rails from here.**

 **Also for those who are worried about Davos Seaworth not being in this story, don't worry, he'll still show up. Not in this chapter, but he'll be around.**

Ser Baelor "Brightsmile" Hightower was having a great day. The heir to the seat of Hightower, the largest fortification and the heart of Old Town was seated atop a pale stallion, silver gilded plate armor gleaming in the sunlight, almost blindingly bright. The knight's surcoat flapped lazily in the gentle breeze, making the white tower with a crown of flames that was the sigil of House Hightower look as though it were a mirage in the mid summer heat.

Ser Baelor had gone without his helmet today, choosing comfort over protection, as the latter wasn't really necessary. The heir of Hightower guided his pale destrier to follow the column of knights and lords that were all on their way to main gate of Storm's End. At the head of the column was Baelor's liege lord, Mace Tyrell, a fat fool with more weight in his belly than wit in his head, but he was the fat fool who ruled the entirety of the Reach, and happened to be married to his sister.

Next to, and just behind, Lord Tyrell, Randyll Tarly sat atop a truly massive midnight stallion. The Lord of Horn Hill was perhaps the most skilled battle commander in all of Westeros. If it wasn't for the pure arrogance of Mace, Tarly would have been recognized by all the realm as having driven back Robert Baratheon at the Battle of Ashford, rather than the Fat Flower who had shown up only after the enemy was well routed and still managed to take all of the credit. Still, Brightsmile had to think that Tarly would be well recognized by the Targaryens after the war was through.

The party was close enough to see the individuals standing on the parapets of Storm's End, even from the ground they clearly were unarmed, meaning that Baratheon had been sincere in his offer of a peaceful surrender, not that there was any doubt in any of the Reacher lords' minds. Stannis Baratheon was a green boy of five and ten, holed up in a castle with only the minimum of men at arms surrounded by more than thirty thousand soldiers of the Reach. Most were peasant levies, true, but the grain belt of Westeros was home to more knights than any other kingdom in Westeros. Add to that the massive fleet of Redwyne ships anchored right outside the bay, and the ever looming threat of starvation, it was no wonder the boy had crumbled in just two months.

Still, there was something nagging at the back of Hightower's mind as the passed underneath the portcullis of Storm's End. There had been an incident one week past, where their scouts had reported a man in one of the fields outside the ancient fortress' walls. Baratheon's had gotten to him first, pulling the man into the castle and since then they hadn't heard or seen anything of him since, but it was still odd timing. Five days since finding a strange armored knight and then surrender?

Brightsmile pushed those doubts out of his head as he and the other lords of the Reach entered the main courtyard of Storm's End, a huge open area capable of accommodating the five and ten hundred men Lord Tyrell had brought along to help secure the seizure of Storm's End.

At one end of the courtyard stood three men, one of which had to be Stannis Baratheon. The boy was as tall as he was young, already topping both men standing next to him though he was easily many years their junior. Baelor observed the young man with a careful eye. He didn't appear weak, in mind or body, and there was a glimmer betraying an iron will in those dark blue eyes.

The Hightower wondered if the Targaryens would be willing to let Stannis retain Storm's End after the war. If the Mad King was still on the throne then it would be doubtful, but the king's health had been better, and the stresses of war could take its toll on those not even fighting in it. If Rhaegar was king after this, then Stannis would be assured Lord Paramountship of the Stormlands. The boy had just followed his brother's orders after all, and had given in when he realized the mistake he had made. Perhaps when this was all over Baelor would discuss a potential betrothal with his father Lord Leyton Hightower. His sister Lynesse was a woman grown at the age of six and ten, and it would be a good way to keep the Stormlands and Baratheons in check.

"Lord Baratheon, you have summoned me here under the peace banner?" Mace asked in courtesy. Everyone knew the real reason for the visit, Stannis was surrendering.

"Indeed I did, Lord Tyrell," the young man said, holding his composure in the face of the might of the Reach, "Perhaps we could discuss this inside the great hall?"

"Of course!" the fat fool declared from his destrier, the horse had to be struggling to hold the man's bulk. _The true hero of this day_ , Baelor thought to himself with a smirk.

After receiving some assistance in dismounting the beast, Lord Tyrell turned to Lord Tarly, "Lord Tarly stay with the men until I return."

God's bless Randyll Tarly, for he took the slight without even the slightest outward showing. Instead the stoic man merely nodded in return and wheeled his horse around to go back to the men. Mace waited for Stannis to show him the way and followed the young lord and his two guards with his own entourage of knights, most from minor Houses, and only there for protection.

Brightsmile took this opportunity to observe his surroundings. The walls of Storm's End looked huge and forboding from the outside, but they seemed to loom even larger on the inside, giving one a sense of invincibility. The smile dropped from Hightower's handsome face. Blue eyes flicked from the walls to the buildings surrounding them. Stormlands troops were atop each one, none were armed, but they were definitely in an advantageous position.

The knight kicked his heels into the flanks of the pale stallion to catch up with Randyll.

"Lord Tarly!"

The stern man turned, "What is it Ser Baelor?"

"I think we've been tricked!" the heir of Hightower whispered harshly once he was close enough.

"What?"

"Look at those walls," the knight replied nodding towards the huge slabs of stone cutting the Reacher lords off from their army, "Stannis isn't the weak little boy we thought!"

"He used the banner of peace!" Lord Tarly argued, "He wouldn't dare sully such a sacred convention."

"Almost every major lord of the Reach is in here right now! Cut off from the rest of our army, totally surrounded and outmaneuvered!"

"Lord Redwyne is still out there," Tarly said dismissively, "He wouldn't let the capture of his cousin go unpunished!"

Golden hair spun as Baelor shook his head, "Do you really believe that?"

The stern bearded face of Lord Tarly fell as he came to the full realization of Lord Hightower's words. Just as he was about to call the men to action the sound of heavy footsteps echoed through the spacious courtyard.

Both Reacher lords looked over to see a giant of a man walk out from a door next to the still open portcullis. Even from this distance Baelor could tell that the man was bigger than any other in the courtyard, add to that his broad and powerful build and menacing armor Baelor was certain this man was more dangerous than any here.

Armor darker than obsidian in the hour of the wolf, the joints of the armors were studded with claws from some great beast, the elbows, the shoulders, and the helmet itself. Oh the helmet was magnificent and frightening. The expressionless, smooth mask, dark and depthless eye holes, and a crest of great and terrible horns that ran from the front to the back was truly a sight to behold, one that terrified Baelor greatly.

The beast of a knight, the mountain of a man, finally came to a stop directly in front of the portcullis and held his diamond shaped shield in front of him, point buried in the dirt. It was then that both Reacher lords noticed the dragon emblazoned on the black shield. It wasn't the Targaryen dragon, it was white, and in the shape of a diamond with only one head. If Baelor was being honest with himself, it was a fair sight more impressive and intimidating in its simplicity than the three headed dragon of House Targaryen which in comparison just looked silly.

Both Tarly and Hightower stared at the man for a few long moments before a shout was heard from the walls.

"Treachery! The Reacher lords are here to kill us all!"

The portcullis slammed down, and with it Baelor's heart. The knight barely had time to comprehend what was going on as the gates closed when crossbow bolts struck a pair of soldiers next to him. The common soldiers ring mail proved no defense against the steel broadheads and the men dropped like flies.

"Shields up!" Lord Tarly bellowed as he wheeled his massive stallion around to reach the center of their men, "Damn you, SHIELDS UP! We're under attack!"

Brightsmile barely followed the man's advice in time as three bolts buried themselves deep in oaken shield. Fortunately the Stormlanders had the decency to not aim for his horse, there was still some honor in these men.

Shock and disbelief rocked the man's conscious mind even as his own training as a knight kicked in. The man's longsword was out in a flash and hacking and slashing at Stormland soldiers that thought to try and slay the heir to Hightower.

He couldn't get a handle on himself, even as he slapped the spear of one soldier aside and buried the tip of his longsword in the man's chest. Why would they do this? Why this treachery? Did they truly hope that Redwyne would capitulate with Tyrell captured? That man was far too ruthless and too full of bitterness towards that entire family to care if they were captured.

Baelor's sword cleaved a man's head in two from atop his pale destrier as he tried to understand what was happening. They knew Redwyne wouldn't stop, but the knights and levies of each House sworn to those captured here would, leaving Redwyne with less than half the original force, and a potential conflict right outside the walls.

They were hoping to split the Reach in half!

This realization snapped Brightsmile out of his own mind and back into the battlefield. Good thing too, because up until this point instinct had had him slashing at any Stormland soldier that came near him, but was also guiding his horse away from the bulk of his allies.

"Brightsmile get your ass back in line!" Tarly snarled from his horse, Heartsbane, the giant Valyrian steel greatsword of his House was devastating the Stormlanders.

It wasn't the only thing that was going against the men of Storm's End. The bulk of the one thousand five hundred men they had brought were knights or lords with extensive military training, whereas the one thousand Stormlanders were mostly peasants thrust into the position of men at arms and given only moderate training with a rusty blade one could laughingly call a sword.

The men of Storm's End had gained the initiative for certain, and had felled a few hundred men in the opening moments with coordinated crossbow fire and a surprise charge from the keep, but Randyll Tarly wasn't the greatest military mind of Westeros for nothing, and quickly managed his men into an effective defensive square.

That was when Baelor saw something that felled any welling hopes he had. It was that man, that beast, that creature of darkness that was the black knight.

The huge man waded through the Reach levies, wielding an ax with one hand that Hightower wasn't sure he'd be able to lift with both. Every time the double sided battleaxe rose it was coated in the previous victim's blood, and every time it fell it was repainted with a fresh coat. Shields shattered under the force of his blows, swords were flung to the side as though they were irrelevant, and armor was torn to ribbons by the power of the blows.

A knight of House Florent surged forward on his dun courser, hoping to end the terror that was the black knight. The man's sword was held high as he prepared a powerful blow to strike the man, but with supernatural speed the man in black thrust his ax forward like sword, burying the spike at the tip as deep as the ax head would allow in the Florent's chest. The blow lifted the Reacher knight clean off his seat and dropped him onto the ground unceremoniously and let the courser run free from the bloodshed.

Baelor's attention was ripped from the black knight by a suddenly reinvigorated Stormland army. It appeared he hadn't been the only one watching the absolute slaughter performed by the terrible specter of death and the sight of so many of the supposedly invincible knights of the Reach get put down with disturbing ease had bolstered the confidence of the men of Storm's End.

The silver knight batted aside a clumsy spear strike and sunk his sword in the man's neck before wrenching it free to the gurgling sound of the man drowning in his own blood. His oaken shield absorbed another crossbow bolt and the strike of soldier's sword, forcing Baelor to respond with his own sword.

The battle raged, the two parties were dead even in their struggle, the superior training of the knights of the Reach was pit against the Stormlander's high ground and Randyll Tarly's tactics were matched up with the surging confidence inspired by the great and terrible black knight. Something had to break, and something did.

MID VUR SHAAN!

The entire battle seemed to still at the thundering words that echoed through the entire castle. The only people still moving were the ones fighting the man who had roared them.

It was _him_ , of course it was him.

Two knights charged the black knight on foot, and promptly met their death. In one sweeping stroke from left to right, the massive axe completely splintered the first knights shield and shredded his arm, the second knight didn't even have the opportunity to ready his shield as he had thought the ax would have been stopped by his companion. He was wrong. The double sided battleaxe split the second man's belly open and dropped him next to his rapidly bleeding out brother in arms.

Another knight from a minor house set his rounsey charging towards the towering pillar of power and grace only to meet the head of the blood battleaxe with his chest.

During this short spree the Stormlander's around the black knight had surged ahead, followed by the rest of the soldiers of the Storm's End. What was once an even melee with a one to one death rate, had turned to three to one in favor of the Stormlander's. Those thunderous words, followed by the raging slaughter of those Reacher knights had finally broken the battle wide open, in the wrong way.

Randyll Tarly seemed to understand the situation they were in and kicked his horse to go face the black knight himself. Perhaps if they could finally bring down that monster the Stormlanders would lose hope. The armies were still evenly matched in terms of numbers, and fully armored knights were still better than poorly armed peasants calling themselves men at arms.

The black destrier charged forward, seeming to follow the same tactic as the dozen other knights that the black knight had felled with ease. The terror seemed to prepare for that when Randyll pulled on the reins sharply, causing the warhorse to rear up, lashing out with its legs at the man. That's when Baelor was finally convinced that the black knight was not human.

Rather than raising his shield and retreating as any sensible man would do, the monster simply dropped his ax, grabbed one of the horse's kicking hooves, and pulled. The horse squealed in pain as slammed into the ground on its shoulder, causing Lord Tarly to fly from the beast's back, fortunately with Heartsbane still in his grip.

The black knight allowed the Lord of Horn Hill to get to his feet, choosing instead to circle the man menacingly. The entire battle had stopped, and it seemed that everyone on the field knew that the battle came down to this. If Tarly emerged victorious, then the battle would no doubt rapidly swing back in favor of the Reachmen and undoubtedly end in victory, but if Randyll fell to the terror, then all was lost.

The Lord of Horn Hill was the first to strike, lashing out with the smoky steel of Heartsbane, only for the blade to bounce off the midnight black shield. That in itself was a shock. Valyrian steel held an unholy edge, able to cut through steel like paper, so far as to be able to dissect a man in full plate armor with ease. So for the black shield to so easily rebuff the legendary steel was a shock to the spectators.

The massive double sided battleaxe came swooping in. Tarly was smart enough and had seen enough to know to not try and block it with his sword, lest the blade be wrenched from his hand, and stepped away from the strike and moved in to launch a strike of his own, one that was again blocked by that stout shield.

So their duel raged. Tarly's blows would meet shield and the black knights would meet air. To the casual observer it would appear that they were evenly matched, but to Baelor, the truth was easy to see.

For every one strike that bounced off the terror's shield, two chops of that dreaded battleaxe swung through air, getting closer each swing. It was only a matter of time until Tarly was too slow and that ax clipped him. Then it would be all over.

In a final desperate act the Lord of Horn Hill shot the tip of Heartsbane forward, hoping to catch the monster off guard. The black knight was not fooled however, and simply swung his huge battleaxe to intercept the sword, sending the huge greatsword flying from Tarly's grasp and into the dirt some yards away.

A cheer erupted from the Stormland soldiers, one that drowned out even Baelor's own thoughts as he watched his fortune take a turn for the worse.

Randyll hopped to his feet, perhaps hoping to surprise the dark knight by attacking with his fists, but a massive gauntleted hand reached up and grabbed him by the throat, easily hoisting the lord off his feet.

"Surrender."

Gods that voice! It was deep and commanding, and carried with it the weight of experience. Tarly's own stern voice seemed like a woman's in comparison.

"Never!"

The terror's free hand reached up and pulled the horror mask from his head…

Baelor blinked. It was a man, hardly older than his youngest sister! Sure he looked a little brutish with that heavy brow, scar, and crooked nose, but he was just a man! Not some beast, not some horror from the seven hells. Just a towering, broad, inhumanly fast and impressively strong… man.

"Let me change your mind," the man said with a smile, before slamming his head into Tarly's. The Lord of Horn Hill slumped in the huge man's grasp before the black knight turned to face everyone else, "Throw down your arms. You've lost!"

Despite his heart telling him to lash out, to fight until his last breath, the bloody longsword fell from his grasp and clattered against the ground, followed by the swords and spears and axes of all the rest of the Reacher men.

As he was pulled off of his horse by two Stormlander soldiers Baelor noticed his liege lord Mace Tyrell being pulled from the keep by a couple of soldiers. Even though the day had been lost, Brightsmile couldn't help but feel like the sight of the Fat Flower bound and gagged was a victory for all the Reach and Stormlands.

…

Well it had been an interesting, if short, captivity Ser Baelor thought. He had been pulled from his horse in the middle of the square, clasped in irons, and thrown in the great hall with all of the other prisoners as there wasn't nearly enough room in the dungeons for the five hundred men that had survived. At first there hadn't been any attempt by the Stormlander's to speak to the prisoners. No offering of terms, no discussion of ransoms, not even death threats from the guards at each entrance and the ones walking amongst the prisoners.

The wounded were tended to by the maester, a shuffling old man with scraggly hair and an equally scraggly beard, with the help of some lowborn women who knew how to sew up a cut. The guards made sure no one tried anything, not that they would. Most of the men who had survived were highborn. Knights, Lords, heirs, it seemed that it had been Lord Baratheon's plan to take as many prisoners as possible, rather than just the members of the more major Houses. Well good on him, it only means his plan has a much higher chance of success.

Mace had been insufferable the whole time, trying to bribe the guards, blaming Tarly for their capture, insisting that Redwyne would bring the entire Reacher army down on Storm's End. Baelor knew better. Paxter Redwyne didn't care much for his cousin, and even less for the lords that were in Tyrell's favor. There had always been bad blood between some of the more ancient Houses of the Reach and the Tyrell's, who many believed never deserved the seat of Highgarden Aegon the Conqueror had awarded them.

There were two possible consequences to the outcome of the battle. One was that Lord Redwyne had taken control of the remaining army and was preparing to storm the castle as Mace suggested, or he had taken the troops that would willingly follow him and left for King's Landing, and convince King Aerys that Mace and the rest of the Reacher Lords had turned traitor, which wouldn't be hard as the Mad King was want to call anyone who so much as stood up to quickly a traitor to the realm.

The first option was the least hopeful for Baelor. Like it or not, House Hightower was almost completely dependent upon the Tyrells, and if Paxter stormed the castle and succeeded, there were likely to be 'accidents' that led to the removal of Mace Tyrell and any lord who might support him over House Redwyne. Plus, with everyone already in chains, it would be quite easy for Redwyne to arrange this 'accident' and make it look like the Stormlander's had been the ones to slit their throats.

As bad as it may seem, the second choice would be Baelor's preferred if he was given the option. The Mad King wouldn't reward those who had been captured, and in all likelyhood would probably burn them even if Redwyne didn't kill them all first. And it would help ingratiate the captured lords to Robert Baratheon if they turned on the Targaryens, provided Lord Stannis offered them the chance to lead their men against the dragons.

Speaking of dragons, there was that mystery knight. After embarrassing Lord Tarly in front of the surviving men, he had all but vanished. Granted it wasn't exactly like the guards allowed Hightower to roam free and seek him out, but one would think that Lord Stannis would have his best warrior helping to guard the five hundred prisoners. Perhaps it was best if the man wasn't around. Many of the prisoners had been grumbling amongst themselves. More than a few had friends that were slaughtered like cattle by the huge warrior, but Baelor couldn't help but be curious about him.

For one there was his accent. Brightsmile's home of Old Town was a truly massive city, with a port that brought in traders from literally every corner of the world. As the heir to the city's most powerful House, it had been up to him to break up and resolve more than a few trade disputes. This meant that Baelor had heard almost every accent in the known world, yet the black knight's accent was unknown. The man's voice was deep, and was similar to Dornishman's accent, but there was something else to it, almost like he grew up in Dorne, but had lived in the North for most of his adult life and was in some sort of transition between the two.

The second thing was the man's armor and battleaxe. For the life of him, the heir to Hightower couldn't figure out what sort of metal they were made from. They looked like black steel, but the fact his shield had scorned the attack of a Valyrian steel greatsword with only a few small scratches to show for it was not something black steel was capable of. It could have been painted Valyrian steel, but for all of his armor to be made of Valyrian steel? That would make the man richer than the Lannisters and Tyrells combined. Truly it was yet another mystery.

Not quite as mysterious as that dragon symbol on his shield, however, nor the dragons that decorated his armor. None of them were the Targaryen three headed dragon, but they were fire breathing reptiles all the same. It made Baelor wonder, who was he? Was he some long lost bastard of the Targaryen line? If he was then why was he aiding the rebels? Perhaps he was from a distant land that had dragons of their own? Maybe he just like the way they looked on his armor.

It wasn't until Lord Stannis suddenly appeared in the great hall, sitting at the seat of Storm's End above the rest of them that Hightower got another glimpse of the dangerous knight. He looked quite absurd standing next to the Baratheon brothers, standing at least a full foot higher than Stannis, then there was the smaller one, Renly, who barely even came up to the giant's upper thigh.

"Men of the Reach," the Lord Baratheon's voice filled the hall, silencing the prisoners who had been grumbling amongst themselves, "Lord Redwyne has abandoned you."

Even as the great hall was filled with the clamoring of shocked soldiers and outraged lords, Baelor's mouth split into a smile. So Paxter had decided to go to King's Landing, at least that meant they were all likely to live a little longer. Stannis raised his hand to quiet the Reachmen before continuing.

"It seems your loyal bannermen have decided to sue for peace while Lord Redwyne has taken any who will go with him and sailed for King's Landing."

The hall erupted in confusion amongst those who had not worked out what was going on yet, and excited murmurings from those who had. Once again Stannis raised his hand.

"Sixteen thousand men are waiting outside Storm's End. They are waiting to know whether it will be I who lead them into battle against the Mad King, or if it will be their own lords," the Baratheon said with quiet confidence, "I will accept oaths of fealty on my brother's behalf right here and now, and you will be pardoned. If you choose to remain loyal to the Targaryen's you will be locked in the castle dungeons while I take your men. You have one hour to decide, or I will decide for you."

The boy was smart, Baelor had to give him that. By letting the Reacher lords swear fealty to Robert in order to regain their freedom and retain their lives; he had effectively severed any chance of going back to the Targaryens. They didn't call Aerys Targaryen the Mad King for nothing, forgiveness wasn't exactly one of his strong suits. In addition to that, with the fealty of the remaining Reacher lords the sixteen thousand men just became much, much easier to control.

There was always the possibility they refused to swear fealty, but with their lives on the line, many of the more cowardly lords with them had gotten to their knees and sworn immediately, leaving the others no real choice, for the more lords' fealty Stannis had, the less reason he had for leaving the others alive. So, one by one, each lord of the Reach knelt before the Baratheon boy, under the watchful gaze of that terrifying and awe inspiring black knight, and swore their oaths to King Robert Baratheon, the first of his name.

When it was Baelor's turn to swear for his father, he couldn't help but steal a glance at the horrific warrior, who had his expressionless helmet with the bony crest back on. The knight of Old Town briefly wondered if the man even knew how drastically he had changed things for the people of Westeros.

 **A little shorter, I know, but I felt like that was the right spot to end it.**

 **I don't really have that much to talk about, not a lot has been going on for me. Just work, work, and a little more work. The jobsite I'm working on will be jumping to sixty hours a week so I probably won't be getting these chapters out quite as quickly. Plus the next chapter is going to be way longer, hopefully.**

 **I really want your opinion on this chapter, mostly how Baelor viewed the Dragonborn. I wanted him to be dark and mysterious as well as strong and terrifying, and I'm wondering if I properly conveyed those traits from a third parties perspective.**

 **Also as I'm not one for political machinations, if anyone thinks I made an error in that regard please let me know, I won't get better if you don't point out my flaws.**

 **Next chapter will be the Sack of Kings Landing, or maybe a filler, I haven't decided. Regardless it will mostly be Erik's POV just like this last one was Baelor's. It'll probably be filler leading up to the Sack of King's Landing, then the Sack itself, so the next chapter should be pretty big, but it will also probably be a little while in coming.**

 **Now I have some questions about the possible directions to take the story, all about what happens between Robert's Rebellion and Season/Book 1.**

 **The first thing I want your opinion on is Jalabhar Xo and the Summer Islands. I'm thinking it might be a cool story arc to see Erik take the admittedly small force of Dragonstone and help Jalabhar retake his seat in the Summer Isles. What do you guys think?**

 **The next thing is that whole Vilkas pairing I was whining about in the last chapter. I've narrowed it down to four choices, and would like a little assistance in choosing between them. The first choice is a secret, as it kind of spoils one of my plot points. But the other three are open to your consideration. The other three are Brelyna, Shae, and Catelyn Stark, after Ned dies of course. Oh yeah, Stark still dies.**

 **The last thing I want some help on is what do you think I should do with Baelor Stormcrown? I've been seriously considering Dacey Mormont, in fact she's my favorite choice, but if you guys have anything else I'd like to know.**

 **Please drop a review, I don't want to write what you don't want to read.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Ooh! Longer chapter just like I promised! I'm such a great guy… or something.**

 **Not much to say here, just that the updates will be slowing down here before too long. I've got other stories I've been ignoring for this one, plus work and excuse A, excuse B, skip excuse C and D to go straight to excuse E.**

 **Enjoy the chapter friends, and acquaintances, and complete strangers.**

…

It felt good to be out of his plate, even if he still had his ebony mail undercoat on underneath a raggy old peasant cloak. Next to the Erik was perhaps the most even tempered mule the Dragonborn had ever come across, and he had seen his fair share of mules. Back in Sentinel when it came time to haul broken plows, dented armor, or even freshly forged swords for market, Erik's father had stuck him with a mule and a cart and sent him on his way. Most times the hybrid beast's were foul tempered and unnecessarily willful, refusing to take direction from a scrawny thirteen year old boy.

Perhaps it was because he was twice the size now that he was twenty, and the mule felt properly intimidated, or perhaps it was the huge crowd of farmers and peasants that crowded the beast, calming it with their comfortable pressure. Regardless the beast performed admirably as Erik led it through the King's Gate of King's Landing.

The walls were large, stalwart, ably defending those that lay within. If the gate to the north was anything similar, then Stannis and the lords of the Reach would indeed have a hard time breeching the walls of this huge city. Which was why most of the lords in the war council had heeded Erik's advice of a sending in at most a dozen men with the intention of opening the gates and causing as much havoc inside the city as possible so as to allow the sixteen thousand men outside a window to storm the gate and breach the city.

"Next!" a soldier in scaled armor and gold cloak yelled at the line of peasants in front of him. Taking that as his opportunity, Erik guided the mule up to the man.

"What do we have here?" the soldier asked conversationally as he passed the disguised warrior without a second glance and walked up to the car the mule was pulling.

"Wheat and barley, also got a busted plow that needs looking at," Erik said with a confidant ease, as though this were just another trip to the city for him.

The soldier opened a bag on the cart up, "Ah! Fresh too, gonna have a good day on the market, all fresh grain is being bought for three times normal prices!"

The big man feigned a confused look, "Three times? There a famine somewhere?"

"You ain't heard?" the gold cloaked man asked, "Big army setting up shop just north of here, at the Lion's Gate. Mayhaps to lay siege, mayhaps to attack, any case all them nobles in the Red Keep are hoarding grain."

Erik looked around him as though he were seeing the throngs of peasants flooding into the city in a new light, "Explains all the people."

"Right you are my friend!" the soldier laughed, "Hand of the King pulled all the people into the city. For protection. Well you best get on, good luck and farewell."

"Farewell," he replied gladly before setting off with his mule and cart once again.

Inside the city Erik was not as impressed. The stench that had been very palpable outside the walls was so prevalent inside them that the large man wasn't quite sure whether or not he could actually taste the sewage that flowed through the streets. Throngs of people unperturbed by the sickening smell walked through the same streets that people emptied their chamber pots in. Shit and piss slid in their slow, sickening fashion and people here paid it no mind.

At least in Sentinal there were sewers, with gently flowing water to keep the waste moving out of the city. Even the cities of Skyrim, though most didn't have sewers, still had an effective method of keeping waste to a minimum. He'd never been to the Imperial City, but apparently the largest city in all of Tamriel was almost spotless. Advanced sewer systems, running water piped to every street corner and available for use by everyone, if it wasn't for the corrupt nature of the politicians that infested the city, it would truly be the smallfolk's paradise.

What was more interesting than the unsanitary conditions however, were the soldiers patrolling the streets. They clearly weren't acting in the same manner as the ones in gold cloaks that were more like lawmen than any serious military force. The soldiers were wrapped in various colors, showing which house they belonged to, but they all clearly belonged to the same purpose.

As Erik moved deeper within the stinking city he couldn't help but be impressed by the systematic patrol routes taken by the Reach soldiers. They were well spaced, so as to cover the entire city with their fourteen thousand plus however many came off the ships, but close enough to each other where if there was ever any trouble there would be no less than three patrols crashing down on it. For now it was quite simple to slip by them undetected, no one paid attention to the overgrown farmer and his mule, but it wouldn't remain a non factor for long.

Already he could see that the patrols were beginning to shift to concentrate on the gates of the city, as that would be the likely spot for any attack, while any unused patrols were double stepping it north, most likely headed for this Lion Gate.

After nearly an hour of walking, Erik and his mule finally reached the River Gate, which was the only gate not overrun with commoners, probably because it was the only gate that wasn't accessible by land. It was guarded by a minimum force, apparently the defenders didn't think there was much of a threat by sea with Paxter Redwyne's two hundred ships in the bay beyond. The stone pier was still full of merchant stalls, selling fish, selling foreign goods, selling anything they could, but the Dragonborn paid them no mind, walking his mule right past the men who were quickly trying to get rid of their stocks and get back inside their homes before battle found the city.

It was in these thinning crowds that the veteran noticed a face he had seen before. He had first seen it only an hour before, and without realizing it he had seen it nearly a dozen times in the walk from the King's Gate and the River Gate. A little girl, no older than eight was trailing him, and doing a remarkable job of following him relatively undetected.

The cart left the well lit pier and onto a darkened dock far from any of the docked ships that littered the wharf. Soon enough the little peasant girl, wearing rags for clothes and running barefoot set herself to chase the mule drawn wagon down the dock, only for a pair of rough calloused hands to reach out and clamp down over her mouth and nose.

Erik snorted as he felt the girl try and bite his hand. A decade of working the forge with his father, and years of wielding swords and axes alike had made his hands as tough as leather. She might as well have been trying to eat a shoe. Soon enough the little girl's struggled slowed as the hands covering her face restricted all air flow, then; she stopped, hanging limply in the large man's arms.

The warrior took a moment to truly look the little girl over. Dirty hair, dirty nails, and dirty clothes, on the outside she certainly seemed just a little street urchin. But there was no mistaking the feel of the girl's body, and the smoothness of her skin. Nowhere could Erik feel bone except the joints, and nowhere on her exposed skin could he make out scars, or signs of pox, or any sort of infirmary. This girl ate surprisingly well for a street urchin, and received remarkable care. Given the shit soaked state of the streets, it seemed unlikely that this was the typical treatment for homeless little girls.

Perhaps he would look into it later, but now, Erik had a job to do.

Leaving the little girl dumped behind some empty barrels, the warrior marched off after his mule, hoping to stop the beast before it walks right off the end of the dock. The mule was even tempered, not smart.

Fortunately it was just clever enough to not walk right into the water, having just stopped almost as soon as it was clear of the dim torchlight. It was here that Erik was to wait, for the second phase of this plan was completely independent of the man himself.

The Dragonborn took the time to observe the Blackwater Bay at night. When he and the rebel army had crossed the Blackwater Rush yesterday he had gotten a quick glimpse of the sea. Too large to see either end of the mouth that formed the bay, crystalline blue waters, and a glass like calm that made the bay such a good home for a seafaring merchant trade.

At night the bay was even calmer, with just the slightest breeze coming off the warm sea, filling Erik's nostrils with the salty air that reminded him of his mother, a native of Skyrim and a sailor who had taught the young man everything he knew about sailing and fighting. The salty breeze conjured images of her in Erik's mind. His father wasn't a small man but she towered over him. The man remembered fondly hearing his father tell him about how they met.

 _She was the_ ugliest _woman I had ever seen. Tall, broad, dirty blonde hair and blue eyes, more man than woman in the face and body, but I'd be damned if there was ever a woman who walked into my shop that I didn't bed. I fixed her armor, made her a nice new ax, and as I found out nine months later, put a baby in her belly._

Rayya Iron-Fist had been a mercenary from Dawnstar Hold in Skyrim before joining on with merchant as hired muscle and wound up in Sentinel. Her attendance in Erik's childhood was spotty, not because she didn't love her family, but because she still plied her trade as a mercenary. That didn't mean she wasn't any less special to the young man, he treasured every moment she was home.

The sound of a hull gently splashing against water roused him from his thoughts and turned his gaze to the inky black water. Soon enough a rickety fishing sloop with black sails slid through water and up to the dock.

Upon the deck of that ship was one man, guiding the boat with the tiller and snatching at the sails as he needed to. When he was finally close enough, the man grabbed a coil of rope, tossing one end to Erik who quickly pulled the boat in the rest of the way, "Took you long enough Davos. I thought Tarly may have gone ahead and attacked by the time you got here."

"Sorry, Ser. Redwynes are clogging every inch of this gods forsaken bay," the slight, plain man operating the tiller replied, "Took me a while to find an opening."

The smuggler kicked a hatch on the floor of the sloop open, "We're here, quiet now."

Eight men poured out of the tiny cargo hold, all sweaty and in a foul mood for having to be crammed into such a tight spot. One of the men, a knight with ants on his surcoat, mumbled under his breath, "Fucking stinks of onions in there!"

"Well now it'll stink of barley, so chin up! By the time we're done we'll smell like the realm's shittiest beer!" another man whispered.

"Silence!" one of the higher ranking knights whispered harshly, "Ser Erik, are we ready to proceed?"

"Stannis is waiting on us," the disguised warrior replied, "I can get us there, but you should be warned. I found a spy following me a short while ago. Someone may know we're here."

"Then we best hurry," the lead knight said, righting his scaled armor before climbing into the cart followed by the other knights.

All eight men were far from small men, and the cart wasn't exactly meant to hold this many people. Couple that with the fact they had to share the cart with all their armor and weapons, it was going to be an uncomfortable, if short, ride.

Erik threw the last of the sacks of grain onto the fishing sloop before turning to Davos, "Will you be able to make it back?"

The smuggler looked back out onto the bay, watching the ship movements, "I fear not. We only made it in because some of their ships had just landed some troops and were slow getting back out on the seas."

"You know how to swing that?"

Davos looked to the shortsword at his hip, "I've carved up a few pirates in my day. Don't know if I'll make a difference though."

"Every sword counts, let's go."

"Don't need me to climb in with them?" he asked, nodding his head towards the newly refilled cart.

Erik shook his head, "No offense, but you don't reek of nobility like those pricks. Neither do I for that matter."

"Fair enough."

The two men started walking back towards the wharf, and back under the watchful eye of the city guards and potential spies. Erik didn't seem to gather any sort of attention, neither did Davos, and the two moved relatively unmolested through the streets.

This time there were significantly few patrols of the Reach soldiers, and there was only one of the gold cloaked guardsmen per corner. The streets were emptier than they were before, though the veteran couldn't be sure if that was because the people were being forced into their homes, or if the entire city went to sleep after midnight. Likely they were trying to hide from the inevitable fighting that was due to break out soon. Good, meant less civilians to worry about if they were all hiding in their homes.

All the shops had closed up, Erik was worried that might break their guise, why would anyone be out with a cart full of goods in a locked down city after all the shops were closed. But the gold cloaked fools seemed to be as dumb as they dressed, and completely ignored the warrior and the smuggler.

"This is surprisingly easy," Davos muttered.

"I've only been on this continent for a few weeks, but already I find myself amazed by the locals' ability to ignore the obvious, even if it were staring them straight in the face."

"Careful now, I'm one of those locals."

Erik smiled, "But you're also the first commoner I've had the pleasure of knowing. It seems no matter where you are, nobles are dimwitted pricks."

Davos chanced a look back at the cart, "You think they heard that?"

"How could they? With their heads so far up their asses," Erik japed.

The two shared a laugh as they approached the Lion's Gate, getting a good look at the defenses that were being rapidly constructed. Barricades lined with pikes to prevent any effective cavalry charges, archers on the roofs, and barrels and wagons to block off any way of advancing through the streets. It was an intelligent tactic. The pikes in the road slowed the enemy, the blocked roads boxed them in, and the archers could rain down death at their leisure. Too bad it was all about to go down the proverbial drain.

"We'll get no further in this disguise, time to get our armor one," Erik muttered, "You see that alley? Guard the entrance."

"How do you want me to do that?" Davos asked, confusion and worry written all over his face.

"Do your best impression of a soldier on watch," the young man explained with impatience, "If anyone asks, just tell them to move along."

"Move along?" clearly the smuggler was not exactly sold on this course of action.

"Well if you can't think of anything better than make something up!"

The mule walked into the dark alleyway to the sound of Davos' disgruntled mumbling, but the smuggler stood outside the alley anyway, hand on his sword and an imperious look on his plain face.

Erik ripped the cloth off the wagon, "Time to go, let's move."

The knights leapt from the wagon, pulling the sacks filled with armor that Erik had somewhat cleverly passed off as a broken plow and began to don the gear. Many of the knights had never actually had to put their armor on without the help of a squire, and as a result the process was slow for most. Fortunately for the Dragonborn, he had extensive experience taking off and putting on his armor for and by himself, and was able to help the other knights after his own ebony plate was quickly in place over his bulk.

Just as he was pulling the straps of a breastplate tight over a man with a cornucopia painted on his armor, Erik heard the sound of voices outside the alley. The veteran soldier quickly stopped everyone in their tasks and hid them behind the cart. With Wuuthrad in hand, ready to hack enemies to bits, he peered over the mule's back to get a look at what was going on.

"You there! What's your business here?"

A man in blue with red grapes on his shield looked down at Davos imperiously, as though he were trying to break the man without even lifting a finger. Unfortunately for the sergeant, the smuggler was a champion bullshitter, a trait well prized in the shady world of smuggling.

"On your way soldier! I have orders from the Hand of the King himself to guard this cart!" the smaller man said evenly, with a tone of authority Erik didn't know he possessed, "Unless you'd like to try and move wildfyre yourself?"

Whatever wildfyre was, the sergeant was clearly well aware and well afraid of it as the mere mention of it had the grape man backing up quite rapidly, "Of course! I never meant any…"

"I said on. Your. Way."

The sergeant straightened before the smaller man before giving a slight dip of the head and quickly marching off.

"Smuggler's a quick thinker," one of the knights said.

"Probably comes with the job," Erik replied, "Now get your fucking swords and let's go!"

Seeing no one in the streets paying attention to the alley, the ten men rushed over to one of the buildings lining the main road leading to the Lion's Gate.

"You," the veteran said, pointing at the knight holding a longbow, "Get up on the roof and get ready. When we open the gates I want you to start picking off the knights. Start at the most important and work your way down."

"Davos," the smuggler snapped to attention, "Go with him. It'll only be a matter of time until they realize what he's doing, make sure he doesn't have to worry about getting stabbed in the ass while he's shooting."

"You two," the two knights in question were lightly armored in a coat of fine ringmail and leather greaves, "You'll be coming with me to raise the portcullis. Once its open we're to defend the mechanism at all costs. It won't do to lift the gates only for it to close once our army gets close."

"The rest of you are to make a distraction, start a fire, start a fight, I don't care, just something to keep them as off balance and unable to react."

With that the men split, Erik and his two men sticking to the shadows as well as they could. Fortunately they didn't have to be silent, in the crowd of soldiers like this, the sound of armored footsteps weren't exactly suspicious. What would be suspicious were their appearance. Many of the gold cloaked lawmen probably wouldn't know the difference between the Houses that sided with the rebellion and those that sided with the crown, but they most certainly would suspect something of Erik's less than typical armor.

Fortunately all the soldiers were so busy they never stopped to actually look at the three armored men briskly making for the stairs leading up to the portcullis wench. What was even more fortunate was the fact that the actual wench itself was incredibly unguarded. Apparently arrogance and stupidity was required to actually command soldiers in this new land.

"Wait for the distraction, then get on the wench and be quick about it. They left it unguarded but I'm willing to bet they still remember where it is."

The two knights stood over the wheels, ready and waiting on Erik's word. The armored warrior leaned up against the narrow archer's window looking down onto the street just past the Lion's Gate. It was actually a well conceived defensive structure, the wall of King's Landing. Marksmen could fire on the advancing army outside the gates, and on any enemies that may have made it past the portcullis. Barracks inside the walls were large enough to deploy soldiers in force, and the wall itself was wide enough for those same soldiers to march to any other part of the wall without getting down into the streets that could be clogged with fighting.

His appreciation for the clever design was cut short however, by the sound of the door at one end of the stone room swinging open.

All three men turned sharply to see one of the gold cloaked lawmen standing there, jaw hanging slack and eyes wide as saucers. Just as the man was about to gather his bearings enough to raise the alarm a Skyforge steel dagger embedded itself in his eye up to the hilt.

The poor fool died instantly and fell backwards down the narrow spiral stairs all the way down to the lower levels.

"Fuck."

"Raise the alarm! Enemies in the gate!"

Erik snarled as he turned his helmeted head towards the two men standing at the portcullis wench. The soulless expression of the ebony mask presumably got the point across as the two knights immediately began spinning the wheel and raising the city's first line of defense.

The warrior could hear the sound of armored boots ascending the stone stairs and readied himself for the ensuing fight. Before they reached the top, Erik chanced a look outside, and a grim smile graced his face.

The army just inside the gates was in a panic, not because the portcullis was raising and the rebels were bearing down on it. No their panic most likely stemmed from the horses pulling flaming carts through their ranks. Anyone not trampled by the rampaging beasts was most likely set alight by their burning burden.

A single huff of amusement passed through the man even as the first enemy soldier reached the top of the stairs. The soldier wasn't there long, and was quickly on his way back down with the imprint of Erik's shield tattooed on his armor. The men behind them were knocked back, sending the entire group of soldiers down into the streets. The warrior slammed the wooden door and threw down the crossbar. It wouldn't hold forever, but it would buy them some time.

The door across the room slammed open revealing six knights in full plate with swords drawn.

With a roar, Erik spun Wuuthrad, letting the great battleaxe go half way through and letting the razor edge bury itself in the lead knight, almost cleaving the poor man in half and pinning him to the wall behind him.

Next was the diamond shaped, diamond hard, ebony shield as the warrior used the pointed bottom to cave the next knight's face through the eye slit in the helmet's visor. Before the bloodied corpse even hit the ground Storm's Wrath was out, singing its deadly song as it swatted aside the sword of the third knight and buried itself in the man's chest, sliding right through the now still heart.

Erik raised his left forearm, catching the fourth knight's sword with the ebony plate strapped to it. Wasting no time, the much larger man raised his left leg and lashed out, snapping the man's knee into an unnatural angle. Erik wrenched his Skyforge steel sword from the third knight's chest and quickly slashed the fourth's throat in time to catch the fifth's sword on its overhead chop.

The veteran soldier threw the man's blade to the right and brought his second dagger into the man's neck from the left. As the fifth knight fell to the floor drowning in his own blood the sixth, apparently having not learned anything from the previous five victims, charged Erik headlong, sword waving wildly over his head.

A boot larger than most men's heads landed square in the knight's chest, denting steel and cracking ribs. The man crumpled to the ground beneath Erik who wasted no time slashing his throat with a single swipe of Storm's Wrath.

Blood flowed easily from the smoky steel of the Skyforge longsword, so well he didn't even have to wipe the blade down before sliding into its sheath. Good thing too, as Skyforge steel held an edge like no other, not even malachite could be sharpened to such an edge, nor could anything short of ebony hold it. Just grabbing the blade meant risking losing a finger.

Erik ripped his shield out of the second knight's head and turned back to the two men that were on his side. Both of the men were staring at him with open mouths and half drawn weapons. On the other side of the room the barred door shook with the attempts by the men on the other side trying to break it down.

"Don't just stand there, guard the fucking door," the menacing man snarled at the two Reach knights.

The two men immediately set upon the wooden barricade just as it finally broke down. The first man through looked to be a regular levy who soon looked to be dead as a sword found its way through the skin of his neck, the walls of his jugular, and back out through the other side.

More armored footsteps alerted Erik to the presence of more enemy soldiers coming from the open end of the room. With no narrow staircase to force the attackers to come in one at a time, these men were by far the greater threat. Good thing the Harbinger was by far the greater swordsman.

A soldier charged through the wide opening, spear raised in an attempt to skewer the armored menace, a failed attempt. The iron speartip was deflected up off the incredibly hard ebony shield and the man's rusty scaled armor stood no chance against the finely honed and durable edge of Storm's Wrath.

More soldiers charged, and more men lost their lives. The pattern seemed endless and the bodies piled up, but none laid a finger on Erik. The peasant levies were untrained and sloppy, and the knights were restricted and predictable in their technique. In fact the only man who was even remotely a challenge was a sellsword in light copper rings twirling two steel scimitars, but in the end, he too found himself on the floor, missing the majority of his blood and a fair number of internal organs.

Of course Erik was blessed with an advantageous position, forcing his enemies to come at him two at a time, from the exact same spot where he could attack them before they even knew what was happening. Still, it was a true testament to the downfalls of a rigid military based on social castes, honor, and chivalry.

A gold cloaked soldier swung his sword for Erik's head. On its way there, the steel sword had the top half of its blade sheared off by Storm's Wrath. With his longsword turned impromptu dirk, the guard only had time to look at the ruined blade in horror before the same weapon that had ruined his made him considerably uglier, unless one found themselves attracted to men missing the top halves of their heads.

As the last man fell Erik turned his attention back to the two knights that had been guarding the other door. The two had done a remarkable job, better than he had anticipated if he were to be honest, he had completely expected them to die, but they used their defensive position to their advantage, worked well as a team, and hadn't let a single man through.

Taking a moment from observing the bloodbath that had occurred in this room, Erik turned his attention to the narrow archer's window facing away from the city and saw the torchlight of significantly more than the original sixteen thousand men bearing down on the gate. Ahead of the main mass of soldiers there were pinpricks of light moving far too fast to be humans. Stannis and Tarly were leading a cavalry charge to break the first line of defense inside the gates, not a bad idea.

"Ser Erik!" a voice cried out over the din of battle outside.

The huge man rushed to the other side of the room, looking out over the streets to see who had called for him. Davos stood on a rooftop, shortsword coated in gore and green leather coat spattered in blood. The smuggler pointed down at the street below.

Where he and the two knights in the wheelhouse had the benefit of being in a defensive position, the five knights that had been charged with creating mayhem had not been so fortunate, and had been cut down, their distraction of flaming carts pulled by panicked horses taken care of, and now the loyalist soldiers were lining up a defense, apparently having given up closing the gate. Lines of men with pikes covered the main road from end to end. A cavalry charge would break them, but it would also end with many, many casualties for the advancing army.

"Can you two handle this?" Erik asked the two knights, "I'm needed outside."

"No one will touch the wench, Ser Erik!" the knight with the green apple over his mail said with enthusiasm.

Just nodding his helmeted head, the warrior sheathed Storm's Wrath, pulled Wuuthrad from the stone wall it was embedded in, and paced to the outside edge of the wall.

"Ser Erik," the other knight asked, confusion evident in his voice, "What are you…"

The man was cut off by a deep, powerful roar from Erik as he charged the narrow archer's window on the inside edge of the wall. Holding his shield in front of him, the man collided with the stone. Bricks flew outwards from the impact and the terrifying warrior burst from the wall directly above the defending soldiers. The men had just enough time to look up in fear before the man landed, crushing the man unfortunate enough to be underneath him.

Wasting not a second, the impossibly strong man brought Wuuthrad around in a sweeping chop that opened the bellies of no less than three men. Another chop ended two more men. A spear bounced off of his shield and the soldier who had wielded the weapon was opened up from shoulder to hip. A mounted knight attempted to save the formation by killing the man who threatened to break it. As the man guided his horse nearer, the knight readied his sword to launch a devastating chop, but never got the chance to swing it as the pointed tip of Wuuthrad buried itself in the man's neck.

Erik stood alone in a small pile of corpses staring down the soldiers in front of him who had reformed their pike line. The veteran could practically smell their fear, and could certainly see it in their eyes, their fear just needed a little push.

 **FAAS RU MAAR…**

The whisper was as quiet as a gentle breeze rustling dead leaves, but carried over the sounds of the shouted orders. Over the screams of the dying, the whinnying of panicked horses, even over the sound of the warhorns in the distance, and the effect was immediate.

Men dropped their weapons, turned, and fled in a mad rush. Knights threw their swords to the mud and turned their horses to flee, at least the ones capable of keeping their steeds under control did. Many more were simply bucked off as their animals lost their nerve. Hardened men of a dozen battles wet themselves, green boys loosened their bowels, and the true cravens slashed their own wrists. Dismay was not Erik's favorite Shout, but he could not deny its effectiveness.

The loyalists were in absolute disarray, yet some fought the Shout's influence. A knight in full plate swinging a warhammer bore down on Erik. Wuuthrad turned the hammer aside and the warrior put the pointed edge of his shield in the man's gut, denting steel and knocking the wind out of the man. The haft of the mighty battleaxe swept in from behind and lifted the man onto his back where a quick chop ended his life.

Two more men rushed him, hoping to slay the beast that had singlehandedly smashed their defensive line. These two took their time and worked in tandem, a strategy that worked well, allowing the men to live for a whole forty five seconds before Wuuthrad opened them up and spilled their insides.

A few of the buildings had caught fire, casting their flickering orange glow over the blood soaked ebony plate armor. The fire reflected off the onyx colored metal, some of the few survivors in the aftermath would tell tales of how they could see their own terrified reflections in the soulless mask. Others would speak of the great crest of dragonbone that seemed to be on fire itself, or the blood spattered white dragon emblazoned on his shield and how it seemed the image itself had brought the fire and bloodshed to the city.

The sound of hoof beats on stone sounded as the invading cavalry finally breeched the Lion's Gate. Mounted knights and lords galloped down the streets, giving chase to the retreating loyalists as Erik simply walked down the street.

A man burst out from one of the buildings lining the wide street and ran up to Erik. One of the mounted knights attempted to intercept him, but a sharp word from the armored terror stopped the man in his tracks and let Davos to finally reach Erik.

"Ser Erik," the smuggler began cautiously, "What was that?"

The Dragonborn didn't need Davos to tell him what _that_ was, "It was Dismay, Davos. Fear at its most powerful."

"Ser Erik," a stern voice came over the din of battle. The warrior and smuggler turned to see Lords Baratheon, Tyrell, and someone he didn't recognize in a coat of red and gold mail on mounts walking towards him.

"Right on time, My Lord," Erik spoke with a deep rumble, a fire was building inside the Dovahkiin, one that threatened to burn all of King's Landing if he wasn't careful.

"The cowards fled at the first sign of our cavalry!" Mace Tyrell boasted, "The rout is on!"

"Begging your pardon milords," another voice cut in. It was the archer Davos had been protecting, "But they were poised to break your cavalry charge till Ser Erik here broke them himself."

"Why would they flee in the face of one man, ser?" the unnamed lord asked of the Reach knight.

"I wouldn't call what I saw out there a man, milord," Davos said with a shake in his voice.

Stannis raised an eyebrow but decided to leave it be, "It seems we owe you our thanks then, Ser Erik. If it would not be too much, I would ask that you join us. The Targaryen Loyalists will likely attempt to rally at the Red Keep, I fear there is a long night ahead of us."

None could see it behind the expressionless ebony mask, but a vicious snarl found its way onto Erik's face. The dragon soul inside the man was screaming, blood pounded in his ears and rage boiled just underneath his skin.

"Lead the way."

…

It turns out the unnamed lord had been Tywin Lannister. Lord Paramount of the Westerlands and Warden of the West, though Erik wasn't sure if those titles applied at this exact moment considering he was a traitor to the crown. The man had rallied his soldiers at the onset of the war, but only marched once he had heard of Stannis' victory at the Siege of Storm's End. When Erik had been sent off to infiltrate the city, Stannis' scouts had seen lion banners on the horizon and gone to treat with him.

It seemed the lion was treacherous. Waiting until the balance had tipped one way or another rather than risk his twelve thousand men on the chance that he picked the losing side. Erik really didn't see the dilemma that Tywin had apparently been in. On one hand was this Robert Baratheon. A man who by all rights was a man who had been wronged and certainly deserved justice for his stolen betrothed, and then there was the other side. A Mad King that burned men alive just for demanding that their sister and daughter be returned to them, or for suggesting that King Aerys Targaryen II wasn't a good ruler, or for looking at him the wrong way. Really the man seemed to just burn anyone he wanted for any reason he wanted.

Erik wasn't sure if this Lyanna Stark was worth starting a war over, in fact he was quite sure that subjecting the realm to the horrors of war over a woman was as foolish and stupid and irresponsible as anything that anyone had ever done before. On the other hand, it may be even more foolish and irresponsible to leave a king willing to burn men to death over nothing on the throne.

None of that was necessarily important however, as the ebony clad warrior strode towards the gates separating him and the rebel army from the Mad King and the rest of the loyalist forces. Arrows rained down from the walls of the Red Keep, a massive red stoned monstrosity that came with formidable defenses. The men following Erik were relatively safe underneath their shields as they advanced, following the seemingly invincible warrior.

Arrows bounced off of Erik's shield as he held it high. A few arrows managed to slip by his shield and actually penetrate his plate armor, fortunately the ebony mail prevented the broadheads from breaking skin. The Dragonborn didn't even bother to break the shafts sticking out from his armor, causing some of the men on the walls to quite loudly suggest that he wasn't even human, but some demon from the deepest of their seven hells.

None of that even really registered in the Dovahkiin's mind, his focus was on the rage threatening to consume his entire being. Sometimes having the soul of a dragon wasn't really the greatest thing.

The group reached the gates, and the men carrying the ram emerged from the tortoise shell of shields to smash the gate. Erik stood by them, moving his shield to block the incoming projectiles as they worked on breaking the massive iron double doors down. Out of the corner of his eye he watched a crossbowmen take an arrow to the throat and moved to grab the man's weapon even before he hit the ground.

With one hand he pointed it up at the wall and took a man's eye right out of his socket with the drawn bolt. More arrows rained down as Erik pulled the string back with one hand and placed another bolt in the crossbow. Another man fell from the walls, then another, and another.

The heavy doors were proving to be difficult to break, but it appeared they were almost through when a man appeared above them, an jar of some liquid in his hands. Erik was curious more than anything as the man dropped the jar coating the men on the ram in some sort of slick green substance. His curiosity was satiated however, when the same man dropped a burning rag immediately after the ceramic jar had shattered.

Green flames expanded rapidly, swallowing the men swinging the huge oak log they had been using as a ram and spreading to the men following the column. The fire was incredibly hot, almost as hot as dragon fire itself as the men's armor melted on their bodies. The fire washed over Erik, but it wasn't anything he hadn't felt before. Ebony soaked up heat like desert sand soaked up water. If it could survive the crucible of a volcano, it could withstand a little jar of liquid fire.

The fact he remained unharmed by the fire did nothing to calm the rage that had finally broken free of its restraints. Many of those men that had just been burnt to death had families, homes, children. They didn't care who sat on this stupid Iron Throne, they probably didn't even know the names of the lords they were fighting for.

With a blood curdling roar Erik lunged for the gate, completely ignoring the charred oaken ram that had been close to breaking down the double doors, and slammed his shoulder into the seam. The wooden cross brace on the other side shattered under his momentum and the doors swung wide.

Wuuthrad cleaved the head off the first man he saw, it took the guts of the second, and split the thirds upper body in half all the way from the head to the pelvis. His shield batted aside a sword thrust and caved in the man's face with a powerful bash. Erik's shield flipped up and drove point first into another soldier's face where the warrior left it, swinging Wuuthrad with two hands and chopping men in half with a single stroke.

After slaughtering an untold number of soldiers, Wuuthrad hit nothing but air. Erik forced his breath to even out as he noticed he was surrounded by bodies, none of which were in any condition to offer a fight. Rage settled down as the man took a long look at what he had just done. The men he had just killed were likely little different than the men who had been lost to the green flame. The would have killed him, and Erik didn't feel bad that he had taken their lives, but he did feel a certain amount of guilt in the way he had killed them. A man should never kill to satisfy their rage, it didn't matter who they were or what they did.

Another calming breath, and another, and another.

"Stand fast, monster!"

Erik opened his eyes to see two men standing before him. Both were clearly knights, but also clearly of a certain rank, one that distinguishes them from any other knight. One was a slender man, much shorter than the ebony clad warrior, with olive skin showing underneath his helmet and dark brown eyes underneath the visor of his helmet. The man held a longsword one handed, pointed tip first at Erik in a typical dueling stance that was favored by fighters who used speed as their advantage. The second knight was larger than the first, and had pale skin and fair hair, holding a longsword and shield in the traditional knight's stance. Both men wore white plate armor, engraved with a crown on the breast plate and gilded joints. Clasped to their backs were cloaks of the purest white silk.

Stannis had spoken of these men. Kingsguard. The cream of the Westerosi crop of fighters.

"Well," Erik said with a slight rasp edging in on his deep voice, "This should be fun."

The leaner Kingsguard, the one that looked like a Redguard, was the first one to attack. Like a viper his sword struck with a speed that Erik was hard pressed to match. The haft of Wuuthrad deflected the blade upwards, but rather than launch a brutal counterattack as he was known for, the warrior was forced to keep on the defensive as the second Kingsguard launched his own attack in tandem with the first one.

Erik blocked an overhead chop from the bigger knight with the haft of his ax and swung the stab of the smaller one to the side with the ax's head. Continuing with his spin, the Harbinger brought the massive double sided head of Wuuthrad around in a devastating chop that hit nothing but air, but did force the two Kingsguard to back up lest they be opened up like so many before them.

The two knights pressed the attack once more, forcing the big man back onto the defensive. They were skilled, far more than the other knights Erik had made mincemeat of. That was probably why they were assigned to guard the king instead of sent to the frontlines to die with the peasants.

The smaller of the two Kingsguard was lightning fast, launching swipes, chops, and thrusts with viper like speed. It was all Erik could do just to keep up with him, let alone the second knight who, while not particularly fast or strong, sported a technically flawless form with his sword and shield. In tandem the two were flawless and relentless in their attack, backing their much larger and stronger opponent into a corner where they could finish him off. It seemed conventional techniques weren't going to work on these two.

If the Dragonborn had to, he could use the Thu'um to simply destroy them in any way he pleased. He could speed his arms to blurs and work his way around their defenses in seconds as their mortal bodies would be unable to keep up with him. Or he could burn them alive with a jet of fire, or he could liquefy their bones with a blast of unrelenting force, or freeze them in place, or even invade their own minds and get them to kill themselves. But the Thu'um wasn't a power to be trifled with. He had used it twice in this new land, and both times to save the lives of his own allies, to ensure the lowest possible death count. Plus the results were both easily explained as the wills of men, rather than the single most powerful force ever wielded by mortals.

No, Erik would have to solve this with his own not so inconsiderable skill as a warrior.

As the large warrior batted aside the attack of the second knight, he turned the head of Wuuthrad to intercept a thrust from the first Kingsguard, but rather than knock the strike aside, Erik let the blade slip through the open holes in the double sided head. A twist of his incredibly powerful hands locked the olive skinned man's blade inside the head of Wuuthrad.

The second knight was swinging his sword around in an effort to take advantage of the static warrior, but before steel could meet flesh Erik's boot launched into the man's shield, sending him flying back and leaving the first Kingsguard at the warrior's mercy.

The Harbinger swung the ax upwards, sending the sword flying from the olive skinned knight's hands. The knight slipped a dagger from his back and made to stab Erik while his arms were up in the air, but found only air as the bigger man twisted away from the short blade. Not letting up, and certainly not giving ground so Erik could gain a superior reach, the Kingsguard followed quickly, trying once more to slide his dagger in through a crease in the big man's onyx colored armor.

His hand made it about halfway to Erik's body before the wrist was grabbed by a massive gauntleted hand and twisted at an unnatural angle. The sharp cry of agony that followed was short lived as the hand and its partner grabbed his chin and the back of his head. Sixty pounds of torque and the last thing the Kingsguard ever saw was his own white cloak billowing behind him.

The sound of steel whistling through air was all Erik needed. His right forearm caught the blade of the second knight. The blade was well crafted from superior steel, sharpened to an edge to rival the works of elvish blacksmiths, but the forearm plate was ebony, iron caught in the molten core of a volcano, subjected to pressure known to turn coal into diamonds and the only heat known to rival dragon fire. The steel did an admirable job, the edge managed to get all the way through the armor and find the skin underneath, but ultimately it caught in the thick plate and the cutting edge would go no further.

With his left hand Erik slammed his fist into the second knight's shield, knocking the man off balance and giving him a chance to throw the man's sword wide rip the shield from his grasp. The knight tried to bring his sword around again, but in an incredible display of toughness, Erik grabbed the blade tip with his right hand, ignoring the blood that flowed freely from such a move. Not stopping there, the warrior grabbed the blade halfway between tip and hilt with his left and with the almost unnatural strength that had come to be his trademark in this realm, bent the tip of the blade.

The knight stepped back, looking at his ruined sword before looking back up at Erik, "My duty will not allow me to yield."

There was a defeated inflection to his voice. He knew what was going to happen next, and had already accepted it. There was something about that that Erik admired. His dedication to his oaths, it was unfortunate such a man had to die for someone called the Mad King.

"I know…"

A flash of Skyforge steel and Storm's Wrath took his head in one clean sweep before returning to its sheath at Erik's hip. The warrior watched the headless corpse drop to the ground with a sigh. Too many good men died for no good reason.

The sound of armored boots heralded the arrival of more soldiers. Nearly a dozen red and black garbed men poured out of the keep and into the courtyard, only to stop dead at the destruction they found there.

"Lay down your arms," Erik commanded, "Enough good men have died here today, on both sides."

The men seemed to consider his words for a second before one stepped forward from the group, "You would surrender, milord?"

Erik cocked his head, "You're in no position to demand my surrender. When that green fire dies down, twenty eight thousand men will come pouring through here. Even if you manage to kill me, which I doubt, you won't be able to do anything to stop them."

"Begging your pardon, milord," the same man said apologetically, "We just thought youse was a Targaryen yourself, with the dragon on your shield and all."

The Dragonborn snorted, "I get that a lot. Will you surrender the Red Keep?"

The man turned back to his allies before looking back at Erik and throwing down his sword and shield. The ten men behind him did the same and the courtyard was filled with the sound of steel clattering against stone.

…

Wuuthrad slung across his shoulders, Storm's Wrath hung from his hip, and shield strapped to his back, Erik was at the most relaxed he had been all day. Though considering dawn was on the horizon it was technically a whole new day. Of course that did nothing to ease the ache he felt in his muscles, or the fatigue he felt in his bones. There would be time to sleep later, however, he had a king to slay first, provided he was still here. Big castles like this, likely had plenty of escape routes, it would be no trouble for the royal family to disappear into those, of course they would need a way of getting out of the city after that, and that's something Erik wasn't sure existed anymore.

Behind the warrior strode the castle guard in their red and black scaled armor. At every junction Erik raised an arm and two men split off from the main group to spread the word, surrender or die. An easy choice for most and from what Erik could hear, there was no more fighting within the keep.

At least that's what he thought until a scream pierced the air.

"That sounded like Princess Elia!" one of the men following Erik exclaimed.

"Aye, came from the nursery!" another one confirmed.

Princess Elia? The nursery? Something about that didn't sound quite… _Oh Fuck!_

With strength he didn't know he still had, Erik launched his considerable mass down the hallway at speeds that would give a horse a run for its money. Zeroing in on the horrified screams, the ebony clad warrior had to step over bodies on his way. Their wounds were gruesome, as though done by some great beast. Men had their heads smashed against stone, others were opened up by some great blade, one had a boot print to put a giant to shame in what used to be his ribs.

Finally the door was in sight, the screams were coming from the other side, as well as another voice that could only now be heard that he was close enough, "Quiet bitch! We could have been gentle with you, but now… you and your little girl are in for a wild ride!"

The oak door splintered under the force Erik subjected it too. Just on the other side of the door was a man in a red and black surcoat boasting the silhouette of some sort of insect over steel plate. The man had a little girl in his hands, no more than three years old and bawling. Already the olive skinned toddler was sporting several welts on her pretty face.

Against the wall behind the man there was a smattering of blood dripping down onto an infant with a flattened head. Next to the infant corpse stood a giant of a man. Eight foot tall at least, with limbs as thick as tree trunks and shoulders that belonged on an ox rather than a man. There was thick plate armor that was far too heavy for any normal man to even stand in let alone fight in covering his upper body with a bright yellow surcoat showing three black dogs all midstride. What really caught Erik's attention, however, was the lack of coverings on his lower body and the slender, olive skinned beauty he was busy roughly ripping the clothes off of.

The rage that had simmered down in the courtyard was back. The dragon in his soul roared, no, it screamed in rage and a sheet of red covered all in his sight.

The man in red only had time to turn and look at who had barged in on their 'fun' before an ebony clad fist met his nose. The blow didn't break his nose, that would imply that it was the only thing that was broken, when in fact the fist shattered the nose, both cheekbones, and ripped out every single one of his teeth.

Without a chance to even defend himself, the would be rapist of little girls was flung across the room where his skull split open as it bounced off the stone. Erik didn't know if he was dead already, but with the head wounds he had sustained both from Erik's fists and the stone wall meant that even if he did survive, it wouldn't be for long.

The giant of a man had more time to respond to the newfound threat than his companion. With a roar that sounded more like a landslide than a human voice he threw the woman down to the ground and pulled at his armored trousers. It didn't really matter if he was wearing pants or not. The dragon inside Erik was filled with rage and hate, and no amount of armor, no amount of muscle, no amount of strength, was going to save this beast from a most gruesome death.

Erik's fist collided with the huge man's face, dislodging more than a few teeth, but the man seemed unperturbed by the blow, and launched his own fist into the smaller man's midsection. The blow knocked some of the wind out of his lungs, but compared to Miraak's Dragon Aspect, it felt more like a lover's caress.

Another blow landed on the beast's face, and another, and another and another, again, again, and again. The lumbering giant tried to attack in response, but only succeeded in getting his arm severed at the elbow by a Skyforge steel dagger. Stunned at the loss the mountain of a man staggered back clutching the bloody stump that used end in his sword arm, letting Erik plunge the dagger twelve inches deep in the man's chest. Still the beast was not dead, but that didn't dishearten the dragon, in fact it only seemed to gladden the wyrm inside.

The beast's face was turned to mush as Erik's arms were relentless in their fury. He was already strong enough to wield two handed weapons in a single hand, but Erik had added weights to his gauntlet for this exact reason. Strength was all well and good, but when you added weight behind the blow, a man's fists could then be a truly devastating weapon.

One blow finally broke the impossibly strong cheekbone of the brute, another actually pushed the right eye from its socket, and one final strike caved the skull in completely, spilling brain matter onto the floor. The man was probably dead long before that, but Erik couldn't help himself. He had been witness to a scene such as this before, and had been helpless to stop it. Now he was older, and was still helpless. A baby had been butchered, a little girl beaten, and a woman nearly raped.

Erik's blood no longer boiled, and for the second and final time that night, his rage deflated.

The sound of sobbing made him turn his head. The woman he assumed to be Princess Elia was still lying where the beast had thrown her. She didn't seem terribly injured, but that didn't mean she was okay. The murdered infant was likely hers, and judging solely by hair and skin color the little girl that had just been beaten was hers as well. Women stronger than Erik had been destroyed by the loss of a babe.

The little girl was huddled underneath a crib, probably the one her brother had been sleeping in hours before. It appeared she had no more tears, just terror as she stared at the corpse of her would be attacker, almost afraid that he would rise up and attack her once more.

The sound of footsteps outside the door caused Erik to look up. In the doorway stood another one of those white armored pricks, this one without a helmet, however. The man's green eyes widened in shock as he saw the state of the room and its occupants, "Gods… what happened here?"

…..

 **Does that really count as a cliff hanger? You don't really know what's going to happen to him, nor do you know what happened with the rest of the Sack of King's Landing, but we all have a pretty good idea of what happens next am I right?**

 **So the Mountain is dead, hooray! Probably not the drawn out fight you were looking for, but Erik did literally catch him with his pants down, plus there was the fight with the two Kingsguard knights. Give you two guesses as to their identities.**

 **Now a lot of you may be wondering, 'Um, Jeremy, won't King Robert be a little pissed about Rhaenys surviving?' You betcha he will, but if you think Erik, Stannis, or Eddard are going to let him execute a little girl you've got another thing coming.**

 **One more chapter before I get back to my other stories. It's really more of a set up chapter than anything. Erik will meet Robert Baratheon, Eddard Stark, Jaime Lannister (in an official capacity) and actually have time to interact with some of the major players. I know these first few chapters have been more about the action than anything else, but hopefully the next one will make it up to those of you who want a little more character interaction. Really I view these last two chapters as Erik cementing himself as an important player in Westeros and giving ample reason for him to be rewarded with Lordship over Dragonstone.**

 **That leads me to my obligatory question for the readers. Do you think he should go south with Stark? Or to Dragonstone with Stannis?**

 **Ooh, one last exciting thing for the next chapter. Erik finally meets Lynesse! Maybe, haven't decided.**

 **Leave a review, don't want to write what you don't want to read.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Forewarning, not my best work. I hate chapters like this, but they're a necessity to move the story along. I'm also kind of burned out from writing it, so enjoy. Or don't. I don't care. Well that's not true I do care, just fucking tired.**

Elia Targaryen… perhaps it was Martell again, sat listening to her daughter with a smile on her face. While her heart was still heavy with grief at the death of her son, Aegon, it wouldn't do to neglect the only thing left to her in this world, her precious little Rhaenys. The girl was the spitting image of her mother, except for her big violet eyes that had always shone with a mischievous and happy glint, a glint that had been missing for the past three months, but was slowly making a comeback.

"Then Sew Erik gave me a present!" the little princess said excitedly, happy to show off her new gifts from her new best friend, the mysterious, but seemingly benign foreigner Ser Erik Stormcrown.

Elia cocked her head at her daughter and her smile grew just a little at the mention of their mutual savior, "He did? May I see?"

Rhaenys nodded enthusiastically before producing two dolls, handing one to her mother and keeping the other one close, "That one's Vilkas, Sew Erik said that he's the best fighter in all of Ta… Tam… Tam-wee-el."

Elia studied the doll in her hand. It was made in the shape of a man, which was certainly unusual for a doll, and covered in copper armor painted silver to resemble steel plates. There was a tiny facsimile of a sword on the dolls back to complete the picture of a knight. Despite herself Elia couldn't help but think that if the doll were a real person, he would be quite dashing.

"That's high praise coming from Ser Erik," the Princess of Dorne said looking back up at her daughter who clutched the other doll to her chest in an embrace so tight that if it were a real person, the doll would surely have been crushed, "Now who's that?"

"Farkas! Erik said he was the strongest man in all of Skyrim!" Rhaenys was suddenly assaulted by a case of the giggles, "And the silliest!"

"The silliest?" the mother asked with a smile, "What makes him so silly?"

"He told me he saw a flock of horses. I told him it was a herd of horses! He said he's heard of horses; he'd seen a whole flock!"

Mother and daughter laughed in a most un-princess like fashion at the ridiculous jape. Elia was not sure how to feel about her daughter's friendship with the brutish looking warrior from lands afar. The man was responsible for the two of them being alive, but he certainly wasn't there to fight the rebellion that threatened her and her now late husband's family. He was huge, with rough calloused hands that were more meant for hammering at steel in a forge, or swinging a weapon on the battlefield, not to mention he was responsible for the death of her uncle, Ser Lewyn Martel of Aerys II's Kingsguard, but he was never anything but gentle and caring every time he played with Rhaenys, or when he fucked one of her handmaidens, though they did tend to walk a little bowlegged afterwards.

"Do you think we could watch Ser Erik train today?" the little girl suddenly asked after setting both of her armored dolls on a chair facing the door, that way they could protect her from any intruders.

Elia looked to the door that was no doubt guarded by two Lannister Knights and frowned. It wasn't enough that Tywin had tried to have her killed, now he had a guard placed on her and her daughter. 'For their own protection', as if the old man was fooling anyone. Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch were his attack dogs, and never had a thought that didn't occur to the Lion of the Rock first. Of course neither had any thoughts anymore, considering that Erik had smashed their skulls with his bare hands.

"I don't think we'll be able to go down to the training yard today, sweetling," Elia said with a sad smile on her face, "but we may be able to watch them from the balcony."

The little girl had almost started to pout, but changed to a vigorous nod that sent her silky brown hair flying with every violent shake of her head. The Princess of Dorne couldn't help but smile at the toddler's excitement. She could hardly believe that this was the same little girl that had been suffering constant nightmares, never smiled, and was altogether a hollow child. The former Martell, or perhaps it was now former Targaryen, supposed she had Ser Erik to thank for this transformation in her little girl.

The mysterious foreigner had spent every moment possible with the little princess, claiming that she reminded him of his baby sister. When Rhaenys had cried, Erik had held her, when she had a nightmare, Erik would tell her stories, and when she was frightened, he had made two toy knights in the likeness of characters from his stories to protect her from her fears. Even with all of the work the man put into it, it had taken nearly all of three months after the incident in the nursery before she was finally herself again.

The two princesses moved over to the balcony that overlooked the main courtyard of the Red Keep. It was rather unfortunate for Elia to have a view overlooking the shit soaked city instead of the beautiful ocean beyond, but it did come in handy for this exact instance. Down in the dirt paved courtyard a shirtless giant of a man swung his sword at a much smaller opponent.

"Don't just parry," Erik instructed calmly to the young Lord Stannis Baratheon, "try and move me around the battlefield. When I strike, pull the sword past you and knock me off balance, then you can strike!"

The young man slapped aside a thrust from the huge warrior and grabbed the man's wrist, pulling him off balance and delivering a sharp slap to Ser Erik's unprotected back with the blunted tourney blade. It was obvious even to Elia at the distance she was forced to observe that the bigger man had allowed Stannis to pull him off balance, and that if he hadn't desired it, Stannis would never have been able to move him an inch, regardless of leverage.

Still, it appeared that he was more than pleased by the Baratheon Lord's maneuver, "Very good! Again!"

The exercise was repeated with the same result. Erik would attack, Stannis would pull him off balance and land a strike on the unprotected foreigner. The Princess imagined that even though the blade was purposely dulled to avoid mortal wounds, the length of steel still had to hurt every time it landed on the big man's bare skin, but he showed no evidence of pain, no slight grimace, no pained stagger, nothing. It appeared that he was as tough as he looked.

The fourth time Stannis went to pull Erik off balance, the foreign warrior stepped into the smaller man and threw him to the ground with a hard shoulder to his chest.

"Of course sometimes your opponent will be prepared for such an attack," Erik laughed as he pulled Stannis from the ground.

The young lord took the harsh lessons surprisingly well, simply standing up and clapping his sparring partner on the back. Stannis must have had other duties to attend as he moved to put his sword on the rack and made to leave, when a voice rang out through the courtyard.

"You know I was curious as to what kind of warrior could have been capable of slaying not one, but two of my sworn brothers at the same time," Jaime Lannister, newly minted Kingslayer and in Elia's opinion an arrogant son of a whore, "But watching you struggle with this boy… I can't help but wonder if they tripped and fell on their own blades."

"Better to struggle with this boy than wipe the floor with you, boy."

Jaime seemed flustered at that, "You seem a little sure of yourself savage! Perhaps I should cut you down to size!"

Even from this distance, both Elia and Rhaenys could see Erik's mood darken drastically, "Watch your words, boy. They have consequences when you speak them to me."

"Don't call me boy!"

"It's what you are, boy," the foreigner declared in a deep, booming voice that commanded respect and inspired fear in those it targeted, "If you wish to prove me wrong, then you must act a man… or a girl."

Their little spat had gathered quite a gathering, Stormland soldiers, knights of the Reach, and Lannister men at arms were gathered around the pair. The Lannisters bristled at the insult paid by Ser Erik, the Stormlanders and Reachmen laughed.

"A duel then?" the Kingslayer asked angrily, "To determine who's a man and whose boy?"

"Two people, engaged in a battle over pride?" the warrior asked disbelievingly, "both would be no more than children."

The eldest son of Tywin Lannister fumed at the implied insult and the apparent refusal of the duel, but made no move to reply, and no move to attack, instead simply standing there in his golden armor, left hand resting on the hilt of his sword and right arm wrapped around the helm. Erik turned away from Jaime and placed his tourney sword on the rack and was about to grab his undershirt when Ser Jaime did something very, very stupid.

The sword was out in a flash, and slicing through the air towards the big man even faster. For all its speed, however, the steel struck naught but air, and Jaime Lannister paid dearly for his sword's actions.

It was almost unbelievable how fast Erik was, particularly when considering how large he was. The man's fists were a blur as they repeatedly smashed the young knight's midsection. If it weren't for the armor Ser Jaime was wearing, Elia didn't doubt that the young man would have been knocked out of the fight already. As it was the blows staggered the knight, but also gave him enough space to swing his sword around in a blow meant to decapitate the foreigner.

Erik bent back, the blade passing over his nose by a hair only to come back in a diagonal slash that the huge man sidestepped. When the blade came in for its third strike, Ser Erik didn't move to avoid the knife, instead stepping into the blow and grab Jaime's sword hand. A quick twist of his powerful hands forced the smaller man into dropping the blade, followed up by a flat palm delivered with enough force to throw the Lannister flat on his ass.

One foot on the blade, the giant of a man reached down and grabbed the sword handle. If Elia hadn't seen the remains of Ser Jonothor Darry's sword from the battle she may not have believed her own eyes. Castle forged steel screamed as it was forcibly misshapen by Ser Erik. The men who had started to jeer at the brewing fight had fallen into silence at the sight, even the ever cocksure and arrogant Jaime Lannister looked stunned at the sight of his ruined sword.

Erik picked Jaime up off the ground and set him on his feet with a gruff, "Get up!"

Elia couldn't make out what was said next as the bigger man leaned in to speak in the smaller one's ear, but even from this distance she could see Jaime's handsome face go as red as his House's banners with embarrassment. At one point it appeared that Lannister had heard enough and went to shove the warrior away only for Ser Erik's iron grip to keep him in place as he began to speak even more harshly, this time looking directly into the knight's eyes.

After an uncomfortably long and considerably one sided conversation, Erik let Jaime go. The Kingsguard knight, thoroughly scathed and scolded, picked up his helm, grabbed a new sword, and left the training yard. Ser Erik simply slid on his undershirt over his sweat covered muscles, belted on his own sword, and grabbed his black doublet.

Rhaenys had watched the whole thing with strange fascination, clearly thinking hard about something.

"An interesting fellow, don't you think?"

The sound of the high pitched voice nearly caused the Princess of Dorne's heart to leap out of her chest. Elia whirled around to see the one person she least expected to see, but probably the one person she should have counted on seeing.

"Varys," the princess scolded, "You nearly scared me to death!"

"My apologies, Your Grace," the eunuch replied, "But you were deeply engrossed in the training activities, I thought it rude to interrupt you."

"How did you even get in here? No… Nevermind," Elia ordered, "Why are you here?"

Varys the Spider smiled one of those smiles of his that never seemed to mean anything in particular and answered with his usual calmness, "I simply wished to check up on the two of you. I stopped by the little princess's rooms earlier but she wasn't there. Considering there are only three places she's allowed to be, your room or with Ser Erik and also taking into account that Ser Erik is in training… well, here I am."

The elder princess stared suspiciously at the Spider before asking another question.

"Why the sudden concern? It's been three months since the Sack."

"And not one of those many days since the battle has Eddard Stark been only a day's ride away, with the soon to be king Robert Baratheon trailing with the rest of his forces by only a week."

"You know this to be fact?" Elia breathed, Stark most likely posed no danger. The Dornish Princess knew plenty about him, mostly stories from Ashara Dayne, her best friend, that she herself had gotten from the man when they had spent time in between the sheets at Harrenhall. According to the Lady Dayne, Eddard was an honorable man, a kind man, the sort of man that would be appalled at the idea of murdering defenseless princesses and their daughters.

Robert Baratheon was another story. By all accounts the man was unpredictable at best. Lustful, arrogant, and very driven. When word had reached Elia only a month ago of her husband's death at Robert's hands she hadn't shed a tear, Rhaegar had basically abandoned both her and their children for that bitch Lyanna, but she had understood the implications of the act. Baratheon had a lust for more than just pretty women it seemed, he lusted after Targaryen lives as well.

Elia could be spared, she wasn't a Targaryen by blood but by marriage, but Rhaenys had the unfortunate honor of being the daughter of that son of a whore with whom Elia had shared years of her life with. Fucking Rhaegar, even in death he was still endangering her and her children. They called Aerys II the Mad King, but that silver haired, prissy little…

Taking a deep, calming breath, the princess forced her emotions down. It wasn't Lyanna's fault Rhaegar was a cunt, and the late prince had gotten what he deserved at the hands of a man who had the second most right in the world to do it, behind Stark, the very man whose sister had been stolen by Elia's late husband.

"My little birds sing songs of a rider in the night, Lord Stark will be here tomorrow, Lord Baratheon by next week," the eunuch informed her, "The conquering hero come to claim his city and his country."

"What will he do with us?"

For once, Varys looked as though he didn't have the answer, "I honestly do not know. If you were from any other kingdom, Rhaenys would pose no threat to Robert's reign, but since you are from Dorne…"

"They're worried my brother and all of Dorne my rise in rebellion for Rhaenys," Elia finished for him, "Do you think it possible to convince him otherwise?"

The eunuch raised a brow, "You would not do all you could to see your daughter on the Iron Throne?"

"I would do all I can to see my daughter grow to be a woman, have her own life. Seven know, I would do anything in my power to one day hold my grandchildren."

For some reason the Spider looked satisfied with her answer, as though it was the one he was hoping for. He spared a glance at little Rhaenys, who had quickly grown disinterested with adult conversation and had moved to her two new toys, reenacting the sparring matches she had seen below with Vilkas and Farkas.

"Ser Erik has already helped you more than you realize, besides just saving your lives," the eunuch told Elia, "He's the one who convinced Lord Baratheon to allow Rhaenys to leave her rooms. He's played with her, helped her with lessons, made her a happy little girl again, all in plain view of the assembled lords."

The princess looked back to Varys in shock, "You think he's attempting to persuade the others to let Rhaenys live?"

"Oh no," the Spider dismissed, "He would if he thought her life was in danger, but not so subtly. He's a warrior, and an excellent leader of men, but he knows nothing of the Game. He has forced nearly all the lords currently residing in the Red Keep to look at Rhaenys as a little girl, and not the sole remaining child of Rhaegar Targaryen. Should Robert Baratheon choose to eradicate Rhaegar's line, his reign will not last for very long."

"And you say he did so unintentionally?"

"Your Grace," Varys began, almost hesitantly, "He's not very… cunning. Not to say he's a simpleton, or that he's uneducated, the man is as sharp as the sword he carries, unfortunately he's as subtle as the ax he prefers. His emotions are worn on the sleeve and he's easy to ire, as Ser Jaime just demonstrated, though it is unlikely that anyone will try and test his temper anytime soon after such a display."

"Is there anything I can do," Elia asked, "Anything to help our chances?"

"I would work on befriending Eddard Stark, Your Grace. It is no small secret that he and Robert Baratheon are closer than either of them are to their brothers. Rhaenys has already earned the good graces of Ser Erik, which has helped more than you think."

"A single foreign knight is on our side," the princess snorted dejectedly, "Why we can take over the whole world!"

Varys smiled his sycophantic smile, "You jest princess, but Ser Erik has essentially single handedly won the war for Robert Baratheon. The new king will feel obliged to grant a boon. Lordship and lands are what most anybody would ask for, Ser Erik is not most anybody."

"You're telling me my hopes lie with a man whose sister was abducted by my husband, and a man whose best friend is a little girl?"

…

Eddard Stark wasn't sure what to make of the scene in front of him. There was a man, taller than even the Greatjon, thicker too, hammering away at what looked like was a nearly finished sword. Next to him, standing on a stool so she could see, was the last remaining Targaryen of King's Landing, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, in dirty clothing and covered in smudges.

"Now you see how the steel is a dull red?" the huge man asked the little girl.

"Because it's colder?" the princess asked, not entirely sure of the answer, or why the question was relevant.

"Exactly," the man replied, "though it's still more than hot enough to melt right through your skin, it's just a little harder to shape when it's red as when it's yellow."

Rhaenys furrowed her brow, "Yellow is hotter than red?"

A nod, "Red is hotter than black, yellow hotter than red, and white is when it is at its hottest."

"Then why don't you make it white every time?" A good question if Eddard was to be honest with himself.

"You don't want it too hot," the man answered, "Then it is too soft, almost like clay, and then you run the risk of making the steel uneven across the blade. Ser Baelor is paying a lot of gold for this sword, it wouldn't do for the blade to shatter because the steel was weak in one spot would it?"

The princess shook her head no and the smith set the blade in the red hot coals of the forge. Deciding now was the time to make his presence known, the Quiet Wolf cleared his throat as politely as he could manage.

The smith turned his head to see the new Lord of Winterfell standing just inside the threshold, "Can I help you My Lord?"

"I'm looking for Ser Erik Stormcrown, I was told he was in the smithy," Eddard told him. Briefly he wondered if the man in front of him could be Ser Erik, but that wasn't possible. What sort of knight would lower himself so much as to work the forge, though why Princess Rhaenys would spend what little free time she was allowed with a simple blacksmith escaped him.

"Well you've found him," he replied, seemingly confused as to why someone would be seeking him, "Rhaenys why don't you find Ser Fossoway and head back to your rooms. You need a bath, you're all stinky!"

"Not as stinky as you!" the little girl stuck her tongue out at Ser Erik and dashed past Eddard, not even shooting him a second glance, and ran towards the nearby green apple knight.

The huge man watched the girl run off, practically pulling Ser Jon Fossoway towards her rooms, before turning back to Stark, "Now why did you want to talk to me, My Lord."

The Lord of Winterfell seemed to stall in his line of thought. He wasn't sure how he wanted to proceed. So many rumors had surrounded his journey to King's Landing. Rumors of the Warrior embodied tearing down the walls of King's Landing, of a Dragon that drank wildfyre and spat steel, how a giant slew two Kingsguard knights without a scratch. There was even the preposterous story about how black demon stalked the streets of King's Landing, slaying over two hundred Targaryen Loyalists.

Now here he was, the center of all of these rumors, standing in front of Eddard Stark in a dirty blacksmith's apron and a confused and concerned look adorning his brutish face.

"Why are you here," Ned started, somewhat harsher and more adversarial then either expected.

"Why am I in this smithy?" Erik asked, "Ser Baelor Hightower asked me to replace his old sword. He must have been trying to hack apart every shield in the city the damned thing was so dull and chipped."

Eddard pinched his bow and sighed, "No, I meant… what I mean to ask is why are you here in Westeros, fighting for King Robert?"

"I couldn't tell you why I am in Westeros," the warrior shrugged, "One minute I'm bleeding to death, the next I'm waking up in some castle called Storm's End. As to why I'm fighting for this King… Rob?"

"Robert."

"King Robert! Well I'm a fighter, a killer, a soldier," Erik elaborated, "I fight for that is my purpose, and from what I can understand, King Robert isn't the one burning people for fun. Why are you here?"

"My sister, Lyanna, was kidnapped by Prince Rhaegar Targaryen," Ned informed the giant man, "Then the Mad King burned my father and had my brother strangled to death."

"More than enough reason for any man to fight, but that's not what I meant," Erik said with a small smile creeping up on his bearded face, "I meant, why are you here, speaking to me?"

A blush worked its way up the Northman's neck, "Oh… of course… I am here because of the rumors."

"What rumors?"

"There's a rumor that you're Balerion the Black Dread reborn in human form, here to punish the Targaryens for losing their way," Stark told him, to which the man laughed.

Erik's laugh reminded him of Robert's laugh, though significantly less obnoxious, it was deep, and boomed out from him, filling any space he was in. Eddard found he couldn't help but let a little laugh out with it.

"Little Rhaenys told me about Balerion, and Meraxes, and Vhagar," Erik told Eddard after he was done laughing, "Very different from the dragons of my homeland."

"Dragons of your homeland?" Eddard asked suddenly, very interested in the way he had spoken of them, as though they were still dragons in his homeland, rather than just legends.

"Aye, big scaly bastards, none so big as to cast an entire village into shadow though," the big man told the Quiet Wolf, "much smarter than the dragons of your histories though, able to set traps, to discriminate which people it attacked, one dragon even assumed a sort of lordship over a small village. The beast would burn any army or group of bandits that moved on the town, and in return the people offered one animal from their herd every week."

"You speak as though dragons still roam the sky there."

"Well, saying they still roam the sky would be a misnomer," the foreign knight said, "Since until just a few years ago there weren't any to be found all across the continent."

Eddard looked at the man, trying to gauge the truth of his statements. Dragons, alive, and thriving, in another part of the world sure, but the problem with the damned things was that they could fly, and were unlikely to stay trapped in one small corner of the world for long. There was also the considerable possibility that the man was lying, or was insane. Stark's were never known for their political cunning, and even less for their people skills, as a result, Eddard was hardly a good judge as to whether or not people were lying. The man seemed honest, and had certainly never given Stannis or any of the other lords here any reason not to trust him, but dragons?

"I hope you understand if I don't take you at your word," the Lord of Winterfell said with some apprehension, "Dragons have been gone from the known world for over one hundred years."

Erik shrugged, "It doesn't matter to me whether or not you believe me. I am much more interested in what you believe will happen to Rhaenys when your friend Robert gets here."

Stark's blood chilled a little at the thought of what his childhood friend might do to the last remaining child of Rhaegar's line. He still remembered what Robert had said to him when he was lying on a cot in a medical tent after they had been informed of Aegon's death. 'Good' he had said, 'I only regret not doing it myself!'

It had driven a wedge between the two, for certain. A wedge Eddard wasn't sure if Robert even knew existed. The Lord of Winterfell hadn't exactly rebuked his friend at the time, just simply left in a cold fury before he did something he might later come to regret. It was part of the reason he had ridden to the capital ahead of the rest of Robert's army.

"I don't know," he replied honestly, "he's out for blood. Rhaegar took my sister, his betrothed away from him, and Robert has never been the forgiving kind. I can only hope that his blood will have cooled by the time he gets here, and that he will see reason."

"If he intends to hurt her, he'll have a fight on his hands," Erik warned as he turned back to the sword in the forge, pulling the bright yellow blade from the coals.

"He is the King," Eddard pointed out, "no one can refuse a king."

"Then how did your rebellion start?" the foreigner asked over his shoulder as he began smacking the steel again.

Stark had no answer to that, and the warrior seemed to take his silence as an invitation to continue speaking.

"I like you, Stark. You are far more honest than most of the pricks strutting around this castle like fucking peacocks. Now you have to be honest with yourself, and with your friend, I understand that you joined this war with the intention of finding justice. What justice is there to be gained in the murder of a three year old girl? What justice was there in the murder of a newborn babe? Are they guilty, because of who their father was? That would make you guilty, your brother threatened Prince Rhaegar's life, or so I was told. I believe that's a capital offence."

Eddard looked at his feet, loyalty to his friend, and loyalty to what is right warring inside of him, "What should I do?"

"Stannis has told me that you are the brother Robert chose, someone he cherishes above even his own family," Erik said, turning the blade over and banging on the other side, shaping the tip of the sword and flattening the blade, "my sisters always listened to me. They may not have liked what I had to say, they may not have heeded my words, but they listened to their brother. That's all you really can do, Lord Stark, talk. For you are one of the few he will listen to."

Eddard looked back up at the man in front of him. First impressions had likened him to Robert Baratheon; tall, strong, and charismatic. The longer he spoke to him, however, the more Erik reminded the new Lord of Winterfell of the last Lord of Winterfell. Kind to those who need kindness, hard to those he found wanting, and wise, though how he could be project such an air of wisdom at such a young age, Stark had no idea.

…

"So you're the one I keep hearing about," Robert Baratheon said from his seat in the Small Council chambers. The one he was speaking to quivered under his gaze, clearly afraid of this large stranger with his booming voice, fierce demeanor, and glaring eyes.

"Well don't just stand there, girl, come here," he ordered, "Let me have a look at you!"

Little Rhaenys, who had been keeping her head low, looked up first at her mother, who smiled sympathetically, then to the giant stranger that Robert had never seen before, but heard much of. The man locked eyes with the former Princess of the Iron Throne before nodding to Robert.

The girl shuffled over to him, eyes down, legs shaking, cheeks beginning to stain with tears, "Oh none of that girl. I'm not going to hurt you!"

Why did everyone assume he was going to execute Rhaenys? She was just a little girl! Sure he had said what he said about Aegon's death, but the maester had given him half a cup of milk of the poppy! He was more out of sorts at the time than he had ever gotten drinking. Robert would not be a second Mad King, and he would not execute little girls! Besides, it wasn't like she had any claim to the throne, she was a girl. The Dornish could try and rise for her, but the majority of their fighting men are currently sitting in the fields outside King's Landing, surrounded by knights of the Stormlands and men of the North.

The only danger Rhaenys posed was if she ever had a boy when she grew up. More than a few lords of the Seven Kingdoms would be willing to rise for a son of the Rapist's line.

Fucking cunt. Rhaegar the Rapist. Stealing innocent girls from their homes, ignoring his father's madness, then trying to crush the men who had followed him as though they had done something wrong. Fuck him. Fuck the Targaryens. Fucking dragonspawn. And those fucking Reach lords followed him like he was the second coming of Aegon the fucking Conqueror, not the rapist of an innocent girl, or the man who had plunged the entire fucking realm into war all on his mad whims.

Robert forced the rage back down to a simmer. Rhaenys wasn't dragonspawn, she was a little girl, one who wasn't at fault for her father's crimes. Gods that had been quite the argument with Ned. The soon to be king's childhood friend had confronted him almost as soon as he had arrived, pleading, arguing, practically drawing that huge fucking Valyrian steel greatsword Ice to make him capitulate. Truth was, Robert had already decided to spare Rhaenys. He couldn't start his reign being known as the king who had executed a little girl. It might keep the cowardly lords in line, but it wouldn't be long before some of the great Houses started to get it into their heads that maybe a king who slew little girls wasn't the one they wanted.

It was Jon Arryn that had come up with the solution. His foster father sat to his right, already taking up the position of Hand at the Small Council table. The old man had been the first to rise for him. The only reason the Northmen hadn't gotten there faster was the fact they had to pull all their people from a space bigger than the other six kingdoms combined.

Arryn's solution was simple. Strip her of the Targaryen name, name her a Martell, and ship her and her mother back to Dorne with the knowledge that they will be left alone, as long as Robert never hears so much as a whisper of treason. They do that, then Elia Martell gets her wish, Rhaenys will grow up, be wed to a suitable husband, one the crown consents to of course, and have children of her own. If Elia refused, she would be executed and Rhaenys shipped off to the Silent Sisters, though it was unlikely the Dornishwoman would object.

Rhaenys finally stood close enough for Robert to reach out and cup her chin, tilting her head back so he could get a good look at her, "My what a pretty face. You'll grow to be a beautiful woman, no doubt about that. Just like your mother."

With that he let go, gesturing to her that she can run back to her mother, which she did, "Now we all know what we need to discuss. I have been counseled to have this discussion in private first, before announcing it to the courts."

"A wise decision, Your Grace," Elia said demurely.

"Bah!" Baratheon snorted, "I haven't been anointed yet, don't call me 'Your Grace' because I won't be calling you Princess."

The giant of a man, someone Robert needed to speak with as soon as he was done with Rhaenys and Elia, gave an amused grunt at his declaration. Informal, a man after his own heart.

"Here's what we're going to do, provided you agree," Robert started, "Neither you, nor Rhaenys will ever bear the name Targaryen again. I will declare you both members of the House Martell, you can go back to Dorne where you live in peace, so long as I never hear a whisper of the name Targaryen from the south!"

Elia's eyes widened at the generous offer, "I accept!"

"Gods damn it woman, we're not done yet!" the rebel king boomed, "Jon!"

"We would also require that Rhaenys spend every other year in King's Landing," the silver haired Lord of the Eyrie said with a diplomatic tone, "So we can keep an eye on her as she grows into a woman, make sure she is well taken care of."

"You doubt my ability to raise my own daughter?"

"Seven hells," Robert growled, "You know damned well why we want her to spend time in King's Landing. We need to keep an eye on her! Make sure she doesn't try and raise an army, rebel against the Iron Throne!"

The Rapist's widow looked aghast at the notion of her daughter raising an army, "You have my word, Dorne will not rise for Rhaenys. I would never put my daughter's life in danger like that!"

"Unfortunately you won't have final say," Jon Arryn jumped in, "Your brother Doran is, from what I understand, a reasonable man, who would see the generosity behind the agreement, but our biggest worry is your younger brother. Oberyn."

Jon leaned forward onto the Small Council table, "Do you think Doran can control the Red Viper?"

Elia looked away, "Oberyn is willful, and cares little about personal responsibility. I love him, he is my brother, but…"

"If your brother puts Rhaenys's life in danger," the giant suddenly spoke up, his commanding voice drawing the complete and utter attention of all in the room, "If he would be willing to plunge millions of people into the hell that is war all over his own willfulness, then you tell him that I'll be willing to plunge him into a shallow grave."

Robert couldn't help the smile that came to his bearded face. Truly, this was a man after his own heart. Informal, regardless of setting or station, and certainly not one to beat around the bush when it came to issuing threats. The Red Viper is supposedly one of the best spears in Dorne, but the stranger had already amassed a reputation far more imposing that goat fucking Dornishman.

Elia looked at the man with a sad smile, "As much as I should be angry with you for saying something like that, Oberyn could use some humility. But rest assured, if Doran can't handle Oberyn, I will do it myself."

Towards the end, the Dornishwoman had taken a different edge to her voice, showing just the kind of fire her kind were known for.

Robert nodded and reached for his cup, finding it empty. Looking around for a pitcher of wine and finding none the soon to be king slumped back in his chair, "Very well, we'll hammer out details later, when I can be sufficiently drunk to stand listening to them. You and the girl are free to go to your rooms, Ser Barristan!"

The sole remaining Kingsguard within King's Landing looked sharp at the mention of his name. The Stormland knight had been the only King's Guard present at the Trident, something that hadn't gone unnoticed as many tried to take down the legendary warrior. None had succeeded obviously, though the Bold had taken more than a few cuts. Robert was told he was found, struggling to stand, in a pile of bodies.

"Escort these two to their rooms and post a guard, men you can trust!" Robert ordered, "I don't know how Stannis got Tywin Lannister from finishing his dirty work but I will not let such a thing happen under _my_ watch!"

At the mention of his name, Stannis bristled. The scrawny fuck wasn't so scrawny anymore, training with a sword and winning battles will make a man out of anyone, even the ever grim and sour second Baratheon. A part of Robert wanted to shake the grim bastard and shout at him, tell him that he's not trying to slight him, a different part wanted to embrace him, tell him how sorry he was for the way he had treated him ever since their parents died, but a larger part of him wanted to keep his silence. Let the fucker think what he wants, Stannis can be convinced Robert pisses in his brother's ale for all cares, so long as he keeps his place.

The two princesses and one knight left quickly, leaving just Robert, Ned, Stannis, Jon, Varys, and the mystery man.

"I have friend, Vilkas, would absolutely love her. Dark skinned girls with fiery spirits were always his greatest weakness."

That fucking giant. Robert wasn't sure what the fuck to do with him, neither was Jon. Ned and Stannis wanted the man formally knighted, landed, wedded and fucking crowned king of the goddamn world! Well, not so much that, but they definitely thought a reward was well deserved.

It wasn't that far fetched to think that this Erik Stormcrown deserved a reward for all he had done. A formal knighthood and some decent lands maybe. After all, the man had turned the Siege of Storm's End on its head _and_ practically sacked King's Landing all by himself, but Robert couldn't help but think that if he put this unstoppable juggernaut under some greater lord's thumb, then that lord would gain just a little too much power. Wars were won with armies, sure, but reputations could be just as dangerous, and this man, having only been running around Westeros for only four fucking months had built one hell of a reputation.

Besides, Robert had a just reward that would also get this nuisance of a man out of sight and out of mind. Not that the future king didn't like the man based on first impressions, but his entire claim to the Iron Throne rests on distant blood ties to the Targaryens and his conquest of over half the kingdoms. Problem was, he didn't actually conquer the Stormlands, North, Trident, or the Vale. They had come to him willingly, and to make matters worse, he didn't even get to conquer the Reach or the Crownlands, the man standing in a black and white doublet across the table did.

"I'm going to name you Lord of Dragonstone," no use mincing words after all.

Jon sputtered, Ned's eyes were as big as dinner plates and Stannis's back shot even straighter, if such a thing were even possible. To his credit, however, Erik just raised an eyebrow.

"Funny, I thought that what was left of the Royal fleet was holding Dragonstone, along with the only other Targaryens in the world."

"Aye," Robert nodded, "I'm well aware of the island's allegiance. That's why I'm putting you as second in command of the Royal Navy, answerable only to Stannis, Jon, and myself when it comes to matters of the fleet. I'm also going to get you wedded and bedded."

"You're not really my type, thanks for the offer though."

"HAH!" the future king barked, "Not what I meant. I've got dozens of Reach Lords shoving their daughters in my face, trying to get one them to be my queen. Fact of the matter is that I haven't forgotten what they are, Targaryen loyalists."

Erik frowned, "You're going to punish the Reach by marrying one of their daughters off to me? How flattering."

"You should be flattered. It won't be some minor lord's daughter you'll be marrying," Robert said, quite imperiously if he thought so himself, "It will be a very influential House, one that will be able to give you quite the dowry"

The man shook his head, "But why me? I'm no lord!"

"Because I fucking said so," Robert growled before deflating, "and because I'm fucking pleading with you. Take the lordship, take your bloody wife, and then take the actual fucking island for me."

The man sat down for the first time since entering the room, looked down at his hands, then up at the decorated ceiling. Finally he turned back to the impromptu Small Council in front of him, "I suppose I don't really have a choice?"

All five of them shook their heads.

"Fine."

 **Eh, I'm not really happy with this chapter. It's okay, not great, or even good, just okay. I guess I'll have to deal though huh?**

 **I'm worn out after this chapter, just because it was by far the hardest one for me to write. I have very poor interpersonal skills, and as a result I can be quite bad at writing them. The voices in my head are hardly a help either, always telling me to just kill off all of the characters and start dropping nukes everywhere.**

 **Just so we are all aware, the mystery girl I had for Vilkas is Elia Martell. I can reveal that now without ruining anything, but I just want you to know the fourth and final name to be thrown into the ring. So far Catelyn has been getting the most requests of the four, mostly because for some reason you all seem to think Tyrion Lannister is going to be alive long enough to meet Shae. How very naïve of you.**

 **Just a quick reminder, the four possible pairings for Vilkas that I will consider are:**

 **Shae**

 **Catelyn Stark**

 **Brelyna Maryon**

 **Elia Martell**

 **Please leave a review, if you think I suck at writing interpersonal scenes, then instead of just telling me I suck, let me know why and how I can improve. I don't care if you have to PM me. Trust me, I enjoy PM's, though I hardly have the time to answer them anymore.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Hey, new chapter, hooray!**

 **Pretty long one, not much to say about it, other than it might seem a little repetitious, so just bear with it. I think it's important to the story, but… I don't know, just read it.**

"He couldn't possibly be _that_ bad," Alerie Tyrell attempted to soothe her youngest sister as they approached what the young woman was certain to be her certain doom.

Lynesse Hightower looked at her favorite sister incredulously, "You read the letter Baelor wrote! He's a foreign savage! He wears _bones_!"

"I wouldn't be concerned about the bones he wears on his body if I were you dear," Alerie's goodmother Olenna Tyrell said, "It's the one he keeps under his pants you should be worried about."

The other three Ladies sitting in the wheelhouse looked at the old woman in shock, one in particular blurted out, "Mother!"

The wrinkled old Lady fixed the only other woman in the carriage of any blood relation with a pointed look, "Oh really, Janna, we were all thinking about it!"

Lynesse's face crumbled as she looked out the window of the carriage so the others wouldn't see the fear painted on her face. In truth she hadn't thought about it, but now it was all she could think about. The beautiful young woman had a few, clumsy encounters with men, far below her station, but sweet like the songs she loved so much, so the majority of what she knew stemmed from the gossip of handmaidens. Many had differing opinions on the topic of lovemaking, but they all had one tidbit of information that seemed fairly consistent. The bigger the man, the bigger the 'bone'.

The scion of House Hightower remembered how much her first time with the pretty stable hand had hurt. If what her brother Baelor had written of her husband to be, then she was in for a rough wedding night. Fortunately, according to the same gossip, it got easier with time, though she wondered if she would get used to her spouse's ugliness in time.

She already had an image of him in her mind, one that she was absolutely positive was completely accurate. The new Lord of Dragonstone, though only in name, Lord Erik Stormcrown, a huge, lumbering brute with a damaged face and fewer wits than an auroch and more body hair.

If the image in her head was true to the letters Baelor had sent then she would also have included a charismatic personality, a kind heart, and a pleasant humor, but she didn't want to think on that. She could wallow in misery if she wanted, it was her horrid, foreign, smelly husband to be, not his.

Silence had returned to the carriage, barring the gurgles and coos of Lynesse's sister's newest child, Loras. Her nephew was a beautiful babe, but terrifying to the youngest child of Lord Leyton. The thought of having to squeeze one of those out for her ugly husband to be filled her with dread. Alerie may not love Mace, her husband, but there was certainly mutual respect, not to mention the fact that each of her children were beautiful. Lynesse didn't respect this brute she would have to marry, and if he was as ugly as she imagined, then she doubted any of her children would be beautiful, or even handsome.

"I hear he is a very skilled warrior," Janna supplied somewhat unhelpfully, though it did pull Lynesse from her pouting, if only a little, "He fought two Kingsguard alone and managed to defeat them both!"

"I'm far more interested in meeting Stannis Baratheon," Olenna said, surprising the other three women, "He bound, gagged, and imprisoned my oaf of a son. I might be likely to kiss the lad for finally doing what I've always wanted to!"

Wisely, both Alerie and Janna held their tongues. Mace Tyrell was a fat oaf, but he was well loved by his sister, and respected by the mother of his children. It seemed strange to Lynesse that the former Redwyne could dislike her son so much, would she be subjected to the same fate? Contempt for her own children as they grew to be lumbering brutes just like their father?

Such thoughts pursued the young woman as the carriage rolled through the streets of King's Landing, making for the Red Keep and her certain doom. The giant red castle was magnificent, though it lacked the certain elegance that Hightower in Old Town possessed. Still, it was enough to distract the beautiful young woman a little bit.

The city itself was splendid, if a bit smelly. Throngs of people walked back and forth, trade and commerce were thriving and alive in the city, and as such attracted people from all over the world. The sight of merchants from Qarth, sailors from Braavos, glass workers from Myr, all made Lynesse's heart yearn for the life she had dreamed of, travelling through the Free Cities of Essos, immersing herself in their unique and varied cultures. Now she would never get to, her big brute of a future husband would never allow that! Likely the ape that was to be her spouse would find the culture of the Free Cities intimidating to his tiny little mind, never mind the fact Baelor's letters indicated that the heir to Hightower was impressed by the man's keen mind.

The beautiful Valyrian architecture further inspired the longing in the young woman's heart. Dragonstone wasn't so far away, she may be able to visit the city from time to time, provided she could persuade her husband to let her go. Unlikely, the savage would probably lock her in a room and her only contact with people would be servants, her children, and her husband whenever he stopped fucking whores to put another one of his vile spawn in her.

Corner shops and residential housing gave way to towering red walls, marking the outer barricade to the Red Keep. Any other time and Lynesse would have been gushing over the magnificent castle, but knowing who awaited her inside made her insides cold at the sight of the towering red bricks.

The wheelhouse shook as the carriage bounced over the cobblestone bridge over the small moat and into the stone courtyard beyond. The young woman got a good look at many of the men standing, waiting for their arrival. Some huge Northmen stood at one end, a people and a culture that always fascinated Lynesse. If she could stomach the cold she might have even visited White Harbor at the end of her tour of the Free Cities. Then there were the red cloaks of Lannisters filling the majority of the courtyard. Nothing interesting ever really came out of the Westerlands except gold. The people were dull, the food was worse, and the culture was oppressive. She had never been, but her brother Baelor had let her accompany him to the docks on many occasions. The young woman had not been impressed.

Some Dornish knights could be seen amongst the gathered, though they were keeping their distance from the Lannisters, with good reason if the rumors were true. The Dornish were a people she had always admired. Free spirits, much like her own longed to be, though they were a little too… free with some of their wilder tastes. Stormlander knights stood gleaming, puffed up with pride, and they had every reason to be proud, one of their own was just recently crowned King of the Seven Kingdoms.

Of course there were the Reach knights, the cream of the Westerosi crop of fighters, or so the Lords of the Reach would have one believe. Lynesse was not an expert on war, so it wasn't her place to say, but wasn't it Reach knights that had not only failed to capture Storm's End, but were in fact defeated by the underwhelming force of peasants?

There was no sign of her husband to be, though she hadn't gotten a very good view of the courtyard. She couldn't imagine him not being there, if anything her brother would have made certain he was there to pay her the proper respect, she was sure.

Lynesse didn't have the time to ponder the implications anymore as the door to the wheelhouse was opened up, a Tyrell knight standing there to help them down from the wheelhouse. Olenna as the oldest and most distinguished of the Ladies was the first one to be helped out. As the Tyrell knight led her away, Lord Mace Tyrell appeared, helping his own lady wife and newest son out of the wheelhouse, followed by Janna, being led away by her husband Ser Jon Fossoway. Finally Baelor appeared, a smile on his handsome face at seeing his baby sister.

"Sweet sister! You grow more beautiful every day!" Baelor Hightower was as handsome as he was when he left to fight for the Targaryens. His golden hair and blue eyes were mirror images of her own and shone brightly in the King's Landing sun. A silver doublet with their House sigil stitched into the silk. At his hip hung a beautifully crafted sword hilt made to look like the lighthouse on their House's banner with a copper and ruby pommel to mimic the flames at the top.

"Brother!" Lynesse could have cried at the sight of her favorite brother, the one who had practically raised her, doted on her, let her have freedoms their father was likely to never allow, "It's so good to see you!"

As the two siblings embraced, the beautiful young woman took the time to inconspicuously look around the courtyard for her recent betrothed. Most of the men she had spied when the wheelhouse had rolled in were involved in training exercises. Only a few Reach knights had actually shown up to greet the Tyrell/Hightower party, most Tyrell knights, a few Hightowers, and that giant in black.

"Sister," Baelor suddenly spoke up in a warning tone as he released her from the embrace and looked into her eyes, "Stop it."

"That's him, isn't it?" the fear was difficult to keep out of her voice. He was HUGE!

"Sister," her brother said softly, "Trust me when I tell you that you have nothing to fear from him. In fact I'd say he's afraid of you."

"Afraid of me?" Lynesse asked, looking past her brother and at the huge man. It was hard to see much of anything about him from this distance, just that he was large, with short sandy brown hair and an equally short sandy brown beard, and very menacing, "Why would he be afraid of me?"

Her brother shrugged, "You'll just have to ask him. You'll have one week to try and get to know him before you're married. His Grace King Robert doesn't want the second in command of the new Royal Navy distracted by upcoming nuptials when he's supposed to be in charge of overseeing the construction of said fleet. Now come on, we've kept your betrothed waiting long enough."

Even though she was still terrified of the menacing giant, the youngest daughter of Lord Leyton couldn't help but find herself intrigued by the man. Here he was, a foreigner without any major political ties, and already he found himself with more influence on the new king than many of the great lords that had sided with him in the rebellion.

As they approached, Lynesse got a better look at the man who was to be her husband and found herself more intrigued. He wasn't a lumbering, hairy, brute. Well, he wasn't hairy anyway, lumbering and brute were still definite possibilities. The man wasn't nearly as ugly as she feared either, not that he was handsome either. His nose was a little crooked, the scar on his face was frightening, and his brow was far too heavy. It was his eyes that held the young woman's interest, however. There was something about their rich chocolate color that pinned Lynesse in place. If it wasn't for her brother escorting her arm in arm she would have stopped some distance away.

Other than the power of his gaze, the youngest Hightower also noticed a slight tilt of the chocolate colored orbs, one that she had seen in the looking glass ever since news of their mutual betrothal had been announced. He _was_ afraid, just as much as her. It was hard to see it past the menacing and intimidating exterior.

"Ser… I mean, _Lord_ Erik," her brother began, in quite a familiar tone, which only added to his sister's curiosity, "May I introduce my lovely sister, Lynesse."

Erik seemed to swallow for a second, a deep breath, before an incredibly charming smile appeared on his strong jaw, "Lovely is certainly an apt description. It is nice to finally meet you My Lady."

If she thought his eyes held power, then she didn't know how to describe his voice. She could practically feel the rumble of his baritone. Baelor had to nudge her before she remembered that she was actually supposed to be a part of the conversation.

"It is nice to meet you as well, My Lord," Lynesse practically squeaked. She wasn't making a very good impression she imagined, but she couldn't help but not be very concerned. Just minutes ago she had been dreading this encounter, and truth be told she could still feel the after effects of the debilitating emotion. As far as she was concerned it was his job to disprove that he was a monster, not for her to prove that she was a satisfactory bride!

Silence reigned for a short time between the two, leading Baelor to get quite uncomfortable as the two future spouses just stared at each other. Fortunately for the heir to Hightower, the current Lord of Hightower chose that moment to introduce himself to his future goodson.

"Is this him?"

Well perhaps introduce was the wrong term.

"Ah, Father," Lynesse's brother breathed out in relief, glad that something managed to break the building tension he seemed unable to escape, even if it was incredibly rude, "Father may I introduce Lord Erik Stormcrown, Lord of Dragonstone. Lord Erik this is my father, Lord Leyton Hightower of Hightower in Old Town."

"My Lord," Erik said, surpisingly cordial. Lynesse's image of the man in her head was losing more ground every second she spent around him.

"So you're the one I had to give my daughter too," her father said, projecting an air of superiority and dismissal towards what he undoubtedly viewed as an upjumped thug, not a great lord worthy of marriage to one of his blood.

The shy, almost fearful look that had pervaded Erik's eyes whenever he looked at Lynesse disappeared in a flash, and those rich chocolate eyes took on an entirely different tone. A very hard tone.

"So it would seem."

Even his voice was harder than it was before, deep and commanding.

Lynesse's father was not impressed.

"I don't know why King Robert thinks you worthy of my daughter," he started in a dismissive tone, "I for one don't really see it."

The look on Erik's face grew… not darker, Lynesse couldn't properly describe what came over her betrothed's face, but he was clearly not happy with the tone taken by her father. Baelor noticed it too, and did his best to intervene.

"Uh, Father, perhaps we should…"

"It's alright, Ser Baelor, I'm a big boy, I can take it," Erik said without breaking eye contact with her much, much, almost hilariously smaller father, "But you should be wary, _My Lord,_ I can give it just as well."

The huge man was now standing almost chest to chest with Leyton, forcing her father to look almost straight up. The arrogant and dismissive demeanor Lord Hightower had been displaying only moments ago vanished, leaving a sneering, but suitably cowed man in its wake.

"Come Baelor, show me to my rooms, then I would have a word with Lord Tyrell."

Lynesse watched in fascination as the man she had seen as unflappable submit to a foreigner with no real political power. Sure he had sway with King Robert, but had no armies of his own, no ships, he didn't even have his own lands yet, and her father had yielded to him all the same.

"Your father is a peculiar man," Erik suddenly said, once her brother and father disappeared into the Red Keep, "I get the feeling he was testing me."

This Lynesse found interesting, "What do you mean?"

The big man shook his head, "I'm not sure. But something about his demeanor was… wrong."

He looked back at the young woman before a small smile appeared on his face, "It doesn't matter. It seems we are on our own, My Lady. Would you…"

Lynesse couldn't get a handle on this man. Her father and her brother had taught her how to read people, determine their emotional state, tell if they're lying, even so much as to be able to tell how easily a man will capitulate, or if they'll be stubborn. Erik was confusing to the, admittedly inexperienced, young woman. One minute he's going toe to toe with the second most powerful man in the Reach, and one of the greatest lords in the Seven Kingdoms, and the next he can barely stand eye contact with a girl less than half his size! Lynesse knew she was beautiful, there was no small amount of suitors who had told her as much, but none of them had ever been shy around her.

"Would you like a tour of the Red Keep?" he finally managed to get out. He was almost sweating! Granted it was midday, with a bright sun, and he was wearing all black, but still. She couldn't help but feel some sort of sympathy for him, she _was_ just as nervous as he was, though she was not nearly as frightened of him as she was during her travels.

"I…" a deep shuddering breath, "I think I would like that, My Lord."

A relieved smile spread across the man's face. He held out his arm for her to take while saying, "Don't call me that. I'm just Erik, a simple blacksmith's simple son, something I hope to never lose."

Saphire blue eyes narrowed slightly at his statement before taking the offered arm. The muscled limb certainly felt like it belonged to a blacksmith, or in a maiden's dream. He might be the simple blacksmith's son he claimed, but Lynesse had no doubt his muscles had occupied the dreams of many girls and more than a few women, herself included.

"Lead the way, My… Erik."

…

"Is Stormcrown a noble House in Tamriel?" the Lynesse asked as she and her betrothed strolled through the Godswood of the Red Keep.

It had been two days since they had first met. Their first meeting was awkward, as was the resulting tour of the Red Keep where they had kept their conversation light, what little conversation there was to be had. The second day hadn't been much different, though she had learned that Erik preferred the solitude of the Godswood, a place mostly empty ever since the majority of the Northmen left. In his words, it was a place where people were less likely to come and gawk at him.

Today, however, Lynesse was determined to at least try and get to know the enigmatic man who was to be her husband, and it appeared he had the same thought.

"I know you said you are the son of a blacksmith, but I was just wondering if you were accepted into some sort of noble House back in your homeland," she clarified.

Erik cocked his head, "Well there are many different facets to your questions, and I feel obliged to answer each of them."

Lynesse smiled at his meticulous nature, something that he had picked up as a talented craftsman no doubt.

"I look forward to each answer," she said with smirk at his expense.

"Well thank you for being so patient with me, My Lady," Erik replied sarcastically, "You are kinder than a brute such as I deserve."

Lord Leyton's youngest daughter laughed, a genuine, heartfelt laugh. Despite herself, she was finding that she was beginning to enjoy his company, or at least his ability to banter, "Well go on and answer, before I stop being so generous!"

The foreigner rolled his eyes dramatically before beginning, "To answer the actual question itself, Stormcrown is a noble name, but not one that is passed on from father to son, or mother to daughter, or through any sort of familial relation. It is a title bestowed upon those who are able to withstand the test of the Greybeards."

A perfectly sculpted blonde eyebrow arched in question, coaxing a sigh and a wry smile, "A tale for another time, sufficed to say not many are tested, even fewer survive."

"So how many Stormcrowns are there?"

"I am the only one, and am in fact the first one since Talos Stormcrown who went on to be known as Tiber Septim after he had conquered nearly all of Tamriel."

The beautiful young woman furrowed her brow, "Like Aegon the Conqueror did to Westeros?"

"Very similar, though North to South, East to West, Tamriel is probably twice the size of Westeros, and he didn't have the help of dragons to aid in his conquest."

"He must have been a very skilled general, is that what the title Stormcrown means?"

"No, actually it has nothing to do with war or fighting in any manner, it's… complicated, and you wouldn't believe me even if I told you," he said dismissively, "You didn't even believe me about the giants! And this is far more outlandish."

This time it was a pair of sapphire eyes that rolled, "Giants are nothing more than myths here, why should I believe that they exist in this… Skyrim?"

"I have something in my rooms that might change your mind."

"Lord Erik," she said in faked shock, "I don't know what kind of woman you think I am, but I will not venture into your rooms so you can 'change my mind'."

A rich, hearty chuckle escaped the large man's lips before his voice took a husky quality that nearly made Lynesse's legs weak, "Are you sure, My Lady?"

His gaze pinned the slender woman to the oak behind her, "I can be very… persuasive."

The Hightower woman just barely managed to keep her heart inside her own chest, "I've no doubt, Erik. But you haven't finished telling me about the history of the name Stormcrown yet."

Erik seemed to know what she was doing, and let her get away with it, "Well theres not much more to tell about the name itself. I could recite some other notable members, but considering their names would likely mean as much to you as Lann the Clever or Bran the Builder does to me, I say we skip the history lesson."

"Then what other 'facets' of my question did you want to explore?"

Erik smiled at her. He had a very charming smile. Probably one of the most attractive things about him. Not that she was attracted to him! No, No! Their polite conversation was just so they could get to know each other a little before being wedded. Lynesse's feelings about the man would certainly never change! Well they already had, but that was only because she hadn't even met him yet! So he wasn't hideous, he was still ugly… with beautiful eyes and a charming smile…

"Well you asked if I had been brought into a noble House back in Skyrim," he began, resuming their walk deeper into the pleasant wooded glen, "You were partially correct. After an incident where I was instrumental in protecting the city of Whiterun, the Jarl…"

Another unasked question was posed by Lynesse's eyebrow.

"They're like a lord or a lady of a hold. Each hold has a city for which the hold is named, and the Jarl is the ruler of the specific hold. Whiterun's Jarl, Baalgruf the Greater…"

Lynesse smiled at the moniker.

"Ridiculous, I know, but he did raise me to the title of Thane, similar to being knighted, or becoming a minor lord. Some Thanes held lands, were wealthy, and had a lot of influence, others were like me, men or women recognized for their service to the hold and given an honorary place in the Jarl's court."

"So you are of nobility, but at the same time you aren't?"

Erik huffed in amusement, "I've wondered the same thing a time or two. People always treated me with the respect afforded a Thane, but at the same time never had a problem walking up to me and asking me for help."

He stopped and leaned against an ash as he folded up his arms. A look of nostalgia crossed his face, "I must have spent half my time in Skyrim helping people retrieve lost family possessions… clearing out wild animals that had gotten a little too close for comfort… One time I actually had to ferry love notes back and forth between a lad and a lass whose families were fighting and they couldn't risk being seen cavorting together."

"Why did you help so many people?" Lynesse asked, genuinely curious, "Surely your duty as… Thane… didn't require it?"

Erik frowned at the thought, looking down at his feet before looking back up at her with a serious look in his eye, "My mother always told me that life was hard, and by not helping those in need, you're not making your life any easier, just making theirs more difficult."

He sighed, "But enough about me for now, you've spoken almost nothing of yourself."

Lynesse shrugged, "What would you want to know about me?"

There was that smile again, "Everything…"

…

Light pervaded closed eyelids and Lynesse was forced to open them, though for the first time in a month, she wasn't filled with dread or unease. In fact she had a small smile on her face as she rose from her covers and stretched. It was the day before her wedding, so most would not think the smile unusual, but it was something Alerie Tyrell noticed as the sisters broke their fast with the Tyrells and Hightowers in the Maidenvault.

"Well that's been a rare sight the past month," the silver haired woman commented as she cut her already diced fruit into even smaller pieces, every bit the elegant woman she was to be as Lady of Highgarden, "Thinking about your wedding?"

The younger woman blushed at the attention that was suddenly directed at her. Her brother, her goodbrother, her father, even that horrible shrew the Queen of Thorns was looking right at her at the mention of her good mood and upcoming nuptials.

"You know sister," Baelor began playfully, "I have noticed out little Lynesse spending a lot of time in the Godswood this past week, has she taken up the Old Ways?"

"Erik prefers the quiet there."

As soon as the youngest Hightower saw the smile light up on her siblings' faces she knew she had made a mistake.

"Erik, is he?" Alerie asked innocently, "I thought his name was mindless savage?"

"I had heard his name was horrendous brute," Olenna chimed in, though much less playfully than the Hightower siblings.

"He insisted that I call him Erik."

Baelor smirked, "No doubt on one of your walks through the Godswood. What do the two of you speak about in there?"

Mace, in a surprising display of wit chose that moment to speak, "Perhaps conversation is not what they desire privacy for?"

Lynesse blushed again, only adding to the red that covered her face. While her skin did its best impression of a tomato, Baelor chuckled and decided to forgo teasing his youngest sister for the moment, "But really sister, what do you speak of?"

"Nothing! Just, we talk about his home, about Hightower, he even showed me his sword yesterday… Oh Shut Up!"

Lynesse's brother held out his hands, "I didn't say anything!"

"How big was his sword?" Olenna asked candidly and without shame, "As big as I warned you?"

Her head hung in embarrassment, if she had to endure any more of those coy smiles, those suggestive winks, or those crude japes she was going to explode. Fortunately, her father, for the first time in her life, came to the young woman's rescue.

"Is it true he wields Valyrian steel?" Lord Leyton asked, ending the innuendo before his youngest and most beautiful daughter died of blood loss from keeping so much of it in her face.

The young woman paused before answering, "I've never seen Valyrian steel before, so I can't be certain, but it isn't anything like regular steel. It's dark, with little waves all over the metal, it almost looked like smoke when he moved it in the sunlight. When he touched a tree branch as thick as my wrist, it cut right through. He didn't have to put pressure on it, he didn't have to saw it back and forth, it went right through like paper."

Baelor nodded, "I've seen him use it on the battlefield in person. No steel sword cuts the way that thing does. Solid oak shields, plate steel, people… cut them up like ribbons. Even the sword he made me isn't nearly so well crafted, not that I didn't get my gold's worth for it."

"What happened to the sword I had made for you in Old Town? That Volantene smith wasn't cheap to come by," Leyton asked his eldest son and heir. The tone in his voice didn't necessarily suggest that he was upset with Baelor, mostly just curious.

"Yes and it was a fine blade! I used it well, but it was like all swords, if you use it too much, try and hack apart shields all day long and it will dull and chip and eventually shatter. I could have had the blade sharpened and it probably would have lasted through another war, but when Lord Erik told me he had forged his armor himself…"

"He made that horned monstrosity himself?" Mace interrupted.

Lynesse perked up at the conversation, she had heard stories of the impressive midnight colored armor. How it withstood crossbow bolts, Heartsbane, even wildfyre.

"It's actually very beautiful to behold," Baelor insisted, "… if you can get close enough to get past how terrifying it is. I actually found him in the forge, here in the Red Keep, smacking the breastplate back into shape, that's how I found out he made his own armor. Obviously I was impressed by the quality of his armor, even asked if he could make me some, but he told me that the metal to make it was unavailable, so I asked for a sword instead."

"Well you keep talking about it," Mace proclaimed, "Let us see his craftsmanship. If it's truly worth it, I may commission a sword for Willas, perhaps even one for myself!"

"Why have one for yourself?" Olenna asked as she took a sip of wine, "So it can rust in the armory of Highgarden?"

Lord Tyrell looked like he was about to make a fool out of himself by getting into an argument with his mother when Baelor interrupted him with a flourish of steel. It was the same beautifully crafted hilt that she had seen at his hip when he had welcomed her to King's Landing, though it was the first time she had seen the blade.

Both Mace and her father's eyes widened at the sight of the sword. Intricate silversmithing on the handle made it look like the lighthouse on the Hightower banner, bricks included. The pommel even looked like the parapets at the top of the lighthouse, complete with copper 'flames' holding a ruby at the tip. The crossguard was constructed to look like a city beneath the tower, even going so far as to have very small, but very beautiful carvings on it to look like buildings.

If the handle was impressive, Lynesse wasn't sure how to describe the blade. It was shaped just like any sword, long, a steady and continuous taper to a point at the end of its three-foot length, but it was what was engraved on the blade. The steel was a dark grey, not smoky like Erik's sword, but dark enough to distinguish the silver inlaid in the carving to highlight the lighthouse that had been engraved on one side of the blade, in exact replica of the Hightower banner. The flames were even inlaid with copper to distinguish them. On the other side was another engraving, We Light The Way, in beautiful calligraphy that honestly made Lynesse a little jealous. She had spent hours every day of her youth in a room with a septa practicing her calligraphy, and her future husband was _better_ than her! Again copper was inlaid in the engraving, making the words almost glow on the steel.

"That's not a sword," her father breathed, "It's a piece of art!"

"That is exactly what I told him when I picked it up!" Baelor said with enthusiasm, "I told him I wanted to be able to kill my opponent with steel not dazzle them with craftsmanship."

Mace stroked his goatee, "What did he say?"

Lynessse's brother shook his head, "He didn't say anything. He just took the sword, and cleaved an iron shield in two with a single stroke. When I left with it there wasn't a single scrape on the steel, still isn't, and I've been training with it every day for two weeks!"

"It seems King Robert is wasting a lordship on this man," Leyton declared, "He should be in charge of training new smiths."

Baelor didn't look so sure, "Maybe…"

The rest of the morning meal passed without incident. Her siblings chose not to tease her on the subject of her imminent wedding, instead trying to determine how the political landscape will fall in the coming months. Much of it depended on Lord Stark's mission to retrieve his sister from Dorne.

He and a small party of Northmen had left before Lynesse had arrived in King's Landing, off to follow up on a lead Eddard Stark had gotten from Varys the Spider. If they managed to bring Lyanna Stark back alive, the she was likely going to be queen, at least from what Lynesse understood of King Robert. Both Mace and his mother didn't seem to agree with the young soon to be Stormcrown. Olenna especially seemed almost obsessed with the idea that Lyanna would come back ruined, raped or otherwise by Rhaegar. Personally, the young woman doubted Robert would tear the realm apart for a woman only to set her aside because she didn't have her maidenhead anymore.

But they weren't asking for her opinion, or Alerie's. Not like Erik. He was always interested in her opinion, even in ship design, something she had a lifetime of second hand experience in. Lynesse was tempted to smile at the memory, standing on the balcony watching the docks as what warships that had stayed after the Sack were undergoing repairs. He had admitted to not knowing much about the design of ships, only how to operate and fight from one. She had made an offhand comment about how the hull design of the Redwyne ships limited their speed under sail and forced more men to man the oars. Skip ahead three hours and Erik was writing notes about ships Lynesse had seen and even jotting down some of her own personal ideas.

She did manage to keep from smiling however, so her siblings wouldn't start teasing again. Finishing with her bowl of fruit the beautiful young woman stood from her seat and excused herself from the table.

Briefly, Lynesse pondered what to do with her last day as a 'free' woman. She was going to spend the rest of her life with Erik, which, admittedly, did not seem nearly as daunting as when she had first arrived, so she wasn't sure if she wanted to spend all day talking with the man. Even if he was a great listener, and always had an interesting story to tell. She could spend her time watching him train, that was the one thing she actually hadn't done all week, despite his reputation as a great warrior.

Well… there was _one_ other thing they hadn't done, but… Lynesse would be lying if she said she wasn't afraid of that particular part of the wedding. Of course she had intimate physical relations with a man before, well, really more of a boy, but Erik was very, very intimidating up close and honestly still put a spike of fear in her whenever she had to get close. The feeling would pass as the huge man showed a gentleness one would not expect from him, but she couldn't help but be uneasy at the thought of him… looming over her, his heavy body pressing down on her, his hips slapping into hers…

The young woman shivered as she walked through the halls of the Red Keep, a shiver that had nothing to do with her low neckline or light dress.

Pushing such lewd thoughts and the unexpected and unwelcome feelings that came with them to the side, Lynesse made her way out to public balcony designed so that any who wish may watch the men train in the courtyard. Erik had told her once that it was also an excellent place to put archers in case any enemy were to breach the main gate. Fortunately for the young woman, its defensive purpose was not needed at the moment, and servants had set out several tables and chairs for those who wished to watch the men train.

Sitting at one of those tables were two figures she had seen, but not spoken too. Elia and Rhaenys Martell, surrounded by a few Dornish knights her brother had sent for their protection, were picking at a platter of cheeses while watching the men below. Well, Elia was picking at the platter, Rhaenys was peering over the edge and was very animated over whatever she was seeing.

"Who do you think will win, mommy?" the toddler asked her mother, excitement evident in her voice even from this distance.

"It is difficult to say, sweetling," Elia replied, indulging her daughter, "Ser Barristan is an experienced swordsman and a knight of the Kingsguard. Most would believe that enough to best Lord Erik."

That was more than enough for Lynesse to quickly move to the edge of the balcony. Not next to the princesses of course, but close enough for Elia to notice the young woman leaning over the edge with intent as sky blue eyes quickly found exactly what they had been looking for.

It didn't seem to matter how far away one was, how many people he was amongst, not even what clothes he wore, Erik always stood out. Of course he could have been the most ordinary looking person in the world and any fool would have been able to pick him out. Baelor was right, Erik's armor _was_ masterful. Glossy black plates that were studded in bones, horns really. Perhaps it was a little gaudy, something she wouldn't have associated with the serious man, but it was also menacing, terrifying, and intimidating, something she had associated with Erik.

He was standing in the center of the training yard in a wide circle of knights from the Stormlands, Reach, Westerlands, Vale, even Northmen stood watching the huge man twirl his smoky steel sword. Across from him, almost an exact opposite, stood Ser Barristan Selmy, Kingsguard to Aerys II and now to Robert I, in gleaming white armor and a flowing white cape, holding his bleach white steel sword level in front of him.

Barristan struck first, like a viper he lunged towards the towering ebon clad warrior. The parry was hard, and the sound of steel clashing rang harshly through the courtyard. Again Ser Selmy struck, this time with a series of lethal slashes that had most likely turned many men into ribbons of human flesh at the Trident. Still, each strike was met, though Lynesse noticed that they parries seemed to be coming at the last moment. Barristan the Bold also seemed to notice the lagging defenses, and continued to press the attack.

Stabs, slashes, overhead chops, all of Barristan's attacks were lightning fast, and masterfully executed. The white knight displayed a gracefulness the youngest member of House Hightower had never seen before in her entire life. She had been subjected to dancing lessons with the best instructors gold could buy, watched knights of the Reach train in the yard at Hightower, watched the birds fly through the sails at the docks in Old Town, never had she seen something move as fluidly, and as flawlessly, as Ser Barristan the Bold was now. And still it was not enough.

All across the sand covered training circle Barristan chased Erik, poking and prodding, trying to find a weakness in his defenses. There were none. Where Barristan was quick, Erik was deliberate, each thrust was slapped aside by a controlled parry, each slash met by a strong counter that left the courtyard filled with the sound of ringing steel.

Minutes passed, no one moved but the two in the ring. No one made a sound, but for the two in the ring. Lynesse almost passed out before she realized that breathing wasn't also restricted to the two men in the training yard. In all this time, neither showed weakness, as Barristan attacked and Erik defended, the two playing their parts to utmost perfection. It wasn't until the distinguished Kingsguard finally relented in his attack that anyone was able to glean even the slightest weakness.

Ser Barristan grabbed at his shoulder as he rolled it with a grimace visible even through his armor and from Lynesse's vantage.

The massive black knight tilted his head at the white knight, waiting for the smaller man to get back in a fighting stance. With a final roll of his clearly sore shoulder, the Bold acquiesced and assumed his original dueling stance... and was immediately put on the defensive.

Heavy blows rained down on the Kingsguard. Not nearly as fast as Ser Barristan had been able to deliver them, but far stronger than he would ever be able to deliver. If the Kingsguard's shoulder wasn't sore before, it would be now. The sheer strength behind the black knight's blows was enough to keep the white knight from counter attacking, forcing the famous knight to stumble after each strike. If this kept up, Erik would overwhelm Ser Barristan's defenses and crush the white knight.

It would not keep up, however. In a stunning move of grace, skill, and cunning, Barristan Selmy stepped inside one of Erik's attacks and planted his shoulder into the large man's stomach, using his lower center of gravity to his advantage and knocking him off balance and actually managing to topple the giant.

The foreign warrior hit the ground rolling, bringing his smokey steel sword to slap aside a quick follow up attack from his white armored opponent. Just like that, in an exchange that lasted less than five seconds, Erik was on the defensive again, though this time his parries were anything but deliberate.

Sapphire blue eyes could hardly believe the speed with which the big man moved. He wasn't as fast as Ser Barristan had been, but he was far faster than a man of his size had any right to be, and his opponent, one of the most skilled swordsmen in the world, was struggling to keep up with the black knight.

Throughout the exchange the courtyard remained silent, knights from all over Westeros looking on in awe at the two warriors, both amongst the greatest in the Seven Kingdoms, even the Known World, as they clashed in what looked more like an epic struggle rather than a simple training duel. Even the servants on the balcony had stopped in their tasks and watched the exchange below. Elia and Rhaenys were fixated on the duel with equal intensity, leaning on the stone railing right next to the future Lady Stormcrown.

Finally Erik relented, finishing his series of attacks with a particularly hard push that put a significant distance between the two combatants. Another sign of pain from Ser Barristan who rolled his shoulder again, this time clutching at it in something that resembled agony. He wasn't alone in his displays of discomfort, Erik's shoulders heaved as he fought to catch his breath. Moving that quickly, for that long, must have taken quite a toll on his stamina. It would appear the duel would come down to what failed first, Barristan's shoulder, or Erik's lungs.

It seemed the two were eager to find the answer themselves as they threw themselves at each other, swords flashing dangerously in the sunlight. This was not the one sided battles of before, where one attacked and the other defended. This time the two attacked, parried, and counterattacked in a dance that was much more even than before. The sound of steel had reached such a fevered pitch, Lynesse was certain the High Septon could hear it in the Sept of Baelor.

Then the unthinkable, the unimaginable, the… the unfair! Bleached white steel met the dark and smoky Valyrian steel, and was shorn off, halfway along the length of the blade. Barristan the Bold found himself with half a sword in one hand, and a full sword pointed at his throat.

The white knight dropped the ruined sword and raised his hands, "Yield."

Lynesse could practically see the shocked look on Barristan Selmy's face, she could certainly hear the surprise in his voice. Yield was not a word he had been forced to use often in his life. From his current position on the field, the young woman could see her soon to be husband's frown as he accepted his surrender.

"That wasn't fair," Erik said with regret, "I apologize. I should have used a different sword…"

Barristan chuckled at the foreigner's apology, "I've slain men with Valyrian steel swords before, it's not the sword that makes the warrior. You beat me, fairly and honorably, good ser."

The huge man snorted, "Perhaps it was honorable… but what's Valyrian steel?"

…

It had happened. The time had come and gone. No longer was she Lynesse Hightower, youngest daughter of Lord Leyton Hightower and one of the most eligible Ladies of the Reach. She was now Lynesse Stormcrown, Lady of Dragonstone, one of the most powerful people in the Narrow Sea, behind only His Grace King Robert Baratheon and her new husband Lord Erik Stormcrown.

The thick black cloak hung heavily from the back of her chair, the sigil of her new House boldly stitched onto the black wool and practically shouting her new status as she looked up at it from the dance floor.

Graceful on the battlefield, but certainly not on the dance floor, Lynesse had to quickly return her attention to the man holding her before he accidentally stepped on her toes.

"Sorry," her new husband muttered as managed to tear his eyes away from her bosom long enough to readjust his feet.

She couldn't really blame him, her wedding dress was rather… alluring. Silver and pale blue silk that hugged her waist and upper thighs, accentuating her slender and seductive build, with a low neckline showing off her ample breasts. If her mother were still alive it was unlikely she would have ever left her rooms dressed as she was, as it was Alerie had suggested it, telling her that it was likely to cause her betrothed to drop dead on the spot. Erik may not have dropped dead, but he had been sweating well before the end of the ceremony. Even now he was walking stiffly, and he was constantly shifting on his seat whenever one of the ladies wasn't asking him to dance.

Speaking of which, Lynesse sent a small glare over her shoulder at one of the many women who had been dancing with her lord husband. It wasn't unusual for married men to dance with other women than their wives, in fact it was expected for the groom to share many dances throughout the night with many different noble ladies. What was not expected, however, was for those highborn and noble ladies to rub themselves all over her husband like bitches in heat!

The new Lady Stormcrown was not entirely certain what had brought on this bought of jealousy, but she did know that she was not fond of the feeling, nor was she fond of the women causing the displeasurable feeling. She was well aware of her new husband's… late night activities with several of Elia Martell's handmaidens, the man had told her herself when she had asked him, she was also aware that his activities had stopped once news of the betrothal had reached his ears, that coming from her brother Baelor himself. Still those… those whores! Persisted on touching what wasn't theirs.

Of course that meant he was hers and hers alone to touch, something that quickly replaced the jealously with fear. No longer of her lord husband, but of the bedding ceremony which was likely as little as half an hour away. Men would rush to her, ripping her beautiful dress from her body without a care, groping at her, touching her in places that she had never actually been touched before. As the song finished and her husband led her back to their spot of honor Lynesse suppressed a shiver, or at least she thought she had.

"Are you cold?" Erik asked lowly, "I could see why with that dress you're wearing."

The newest addition to House Stormcrown forced a smile on her face and evaded the question, "Why I thought you liked my dress, husband. Was I wrong?"

The man blinked, took one more look at her bosom, and let out a tormented breath, "Oh, I love your dress, _wife,_ but you didn't answer my question. Are you cold, or is something bothering you?"

"It's nothing," Lynesse attempted to assure her new husband, "Just something all brides must endure."

Erik fell silent at that. Briefly, Lady Stormcrown wondered what he must be thinking about. Likely he was pondering the meaning of her words. She wondered if there was anything similar to the bedding in his homeland. It was possible, after all, according to the man himself the guests, both men and women, would engage in a tournament of fist fights through the night. Once the dancing was done and the bride and groom sent to their first night, the guests fought each other like barbarians!

Though she wouldn't mind watching Erik standing in a ring, shirtless, knocking other men to the ground all in her name…

The couple took their seats and looked over the party before them. A new song had started and many more couples had taken to the dance floor. The bride noticed her brother taking a shapely Dornishwoman to the floor, taking special notice of the coy smiles and winks the pair were sharing. It appeared Lynesse was not the only Hightower who was going to engage in carnal relations.

"Tell my, Lynesse," her husband started, shaking the young woman from her musings, "Are you afraid of me?"

Silence reigned between the two of them as the bride contemplated the groom's question.

"Yes…"

Erik looked down, a somber look in his eyes, "I think I understand… I was afraid of you when you first arrived."

"I noticed, actually," Lady Stormcrown smiled shyly, "Though I never worked out why."

The warrior leaned back and continued their conversation in a low voice, "Well I've been with my fair share of women. Apologies if that makes you uncomfortable, but I've never been in a relationship with one. I've never had a woman that I loved, never even spent any significant time with one outside of the bedroom or on the battlefield. So when I was told I was to marry… I guess this whole business has put me out of my element. I'm a killer, not a husband, and certainly not a father."

"For what it's worth, I think you'll be a great father," Lynesse replied genuinely, "I've seen the way Princess Rhaenys looks at you. I've heard how you were a friend to her when she had known nothing but tragedy. You even made time for her whenever you weren't spending time with me."

"I was just trying to be nice to a little girl who needed a friend, it's not like I am her father."

"Well, if all you are is a friend to our children, you'll be a far better father than mine ever was," Lynesse spoke bitterly, "When I was betrothed to you, all he cared about was the insult to our House, he didn't care whether or not I was unhappy, or scared…"

"I can't promise you'll be happy," Erik admitted after it became clear his new wife was not going to continue, "but I can promise you that I will try."

She smiled up at him, and was about to respond when the King suddenly stood from his place amongst a pair of large breasts, raised his goblet, and said the four words Lynesse had been dreading.

"Time for the bedding!"

Erik blinked, "The what?"

Her breath became shallow with fear as what looked like a horde of drunk men rushed to their seats. The first one, some drunk Northerner with some sort of furry man with a broken chain on his boiled leather doublet, reached for her, and received a fist for his efforts.

The rest of the men had to stop and catch the huge man as he clutched his bloody face. Lynesse's eyes shot wide in shock as the music and laughter died. There, in between her and the group of men determined to tear her clothes off was Erik, huge, menacing, and something else that caused a significant heat to pool in her lower stomach.

"I don't know what you think you are doing," he started, his voice dangerously low and booming, "but if you desire to lay a finger on my wife, you will have to go through me to do it."

"Lord Stormcrown it is the bedding ceremony!" one lord called out, "Your wife won't be harmed!"

"No," Erik replied dangerously, "She won't. Come wife, it seems we have been sent to bed."

 **And there you have it. Their wedded, we'll find out next chapter if they're bedded. I hope you don't mind that this entire chapter is from Lynesse's perspective and that it seems to focus entirely on Erik. But he is the hero of our story, and she is there to marry him** **so it stands to reason that she would be focused entirely on him.**

 **A little more background in this chapter for the Dragonborn, not really anything personal, more universe related. If anyone wants to confirm whether or not any of this is accurate you're more than welcome, just know that whatever I put in here, stands. Regardless of what you might find.**

 **As for Vilkas/Elia, seems pretty confirmed that's what it's going to be, but many of you seem convinced that there's going to be some sort of official relationship between the two. That's not what I had in mind, I wasn't thinking marriage, or children, this would just be an affair between two lovers that sort of sets the background for a lot of my planned Vilkas chapters.**

 **Ummm… I don't think I have anything more to say… Oh! The duel with Ser Barristan! What did you guys think about it? I know I've painted this indestructible warrior in the previous chapters, but Ser Barristan is perhaps the finest sword in all of the Seven Kingdoms, barring Ser Arthur Dayne of course. I mean Erik still won, but only because his sword just straight up cut Ser Barristan's sword in half.**

 **And for everyone worried about Erik turning into a Gary Stu, don't. You haven't really seen a flaw from him yet, but mostly because he's still in his element. He's preparing for war, he's been fighting a war, he's been the warrior he's always been, it's when we get into the first few chapters of his lordship over Dragonstone that you'll start to see some of his flaws come into light.**

 **Anyway, next chapter is Dragonstone, well, it'll start in King's Landing with a mild lemon scene that I almost gave you this chapter, but I didn't like the way it turned out so I'm going to try again next chapter, then it will go to Dragonstone. And for everyone freaking out over how Vilkas and Brelyna get to Skyrim, that's still approximately five chapters away, so just hold your freaking horses.**

 **Drop a review, I don't want to write, what you don't want to read.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Yes, yes. I'm terrible. Here's the new chapter, also… kind of a lemon warning? I don't know if what I have counts.**

His new wife was intoxicating. She wasn't all that… unique… in comparison to many of the women Erik had slept with before. Sure she was easily the most beautiful, but that wasn't what made her so exhilarating to be with. It was the way her lips trembled as she let out strangled cries and blissful moans. It was the way her tiny, delicate hands reached for anything they could grab a hold of in her moment of passion, the sheets, the bedposts, him. There was the way her perfect breasts bounced and heaved in his hands, the way her legs wrapped themselves around his waist, pulling him in and never letting go, and of course the way her pale golden hair stuck to her skin with sweat.

At first Lynesse had been terrified of him. That night, over a month ago at their own wedding, she had been terrified of him. If Erik had had any honor to him, he would not have taken her that night, he would have waited until she was ready, but to the warrior's shame, he was not strong. He had tried to be as gentle as possible, but she was too alluring and his blood was still too hot from knocking that ass that had tried to grab at his wife. Still, he made sure she was well satisfied, he still remembered how her thighs had tried to crush his head when she had finally reached her peak.

Now, however, as Erik looked down at his lovely wife scraping her nails across his chest and down his back, she was not the same woman he had taken on their wedding night.

Unable to resist, the new Lord of Dragonstone craned his neck and pressed his bearded lips to her neck, running his tongue along her silky smooth skin in just the way she liked. His wife rewarded him with a throaty moan and a twist of her hips that sent shocks through the Dragonborn.

Making one last pass with his tongue over her collarbone, Erik pulled back to knead her left breast in his right hand. Gods she had perfect tits. Perky, firm, silky smooth skin and just big enough to fit his large hands perfectly. Aela had nice breasts, but a little too small for his tastes, Faralda's were the perfect size, but sagged just a little, and the priestesses at the temple of Dibella in Markarth were nice, but had been pulled at and pawed by plenty of other 'worshippers' that had visited before him. No, Lynesse had the most perfect pair of breasts in the world.

Well manicured nails tore at flesh as Erik felt his wife tighten around him. No throaty yell or blissful moan issued forth from perfect lips this time, no, this time a scream echoed in the warrior's ears. Erik found himself unable to move as his wife continued her climax, drawing lines down his back and across his chest and squeezing his waist even tighter, refusing to let him withdraw, not that he wanted to, not at this moment anyway.

Muscles flexed, veins bulged, and sweat poured off his body as he spilled himself inside Lynesse. For the first time since they had started, blue eyes flashed open, glazed over in pleasure. Lady Stormcrown cooed as she came down from her high, watching her husband come undone above her.

After what seemed like an eternity of ecstasy, Erik finally collapsed, just barely missing his beautiful wife on the way down, instead landing on his side next to her before rolling onto his back. Lynesse grabbed a hold of his chest and pulled herself into his side, molding her slim, slender body into the side of his bulky, muscular one. The only two members of House Stormcrown lay in the afterglow, pale moonlight filtering in through the windows and casting an eerie glow across their exposed flesh.

"How many is that?" the blonde beauty asked from her place atop Erik's right shoulder, "Two? Three?"

"Two for you," Erik answered between breaths, "Three for me."

She giggled, a magical sound that left the big man awestruck every time he heard it, "I must say, My Lord, it seems awfully unfair."

The warrior laughed, "It's your own fault. You're lucky I was in practice when we got married, otherwise it would be three for me, and _none_ for you."

Lynesse raised up on one elbow to look her husband in the eye, a scowl forming on her face, " _My_ fault!? How could your inadequacies be _my_ fault?"

"Oh I've never slept with a creature of such beauty," Erik said, diplomatically avoiding the fact she had just called him inadequate and wisely choosing not to add that she was the closest thing to a virgin he had ever been with, "If you were as ugly as me, then the outcome would be more in your favor."

The scowl turned back to a smile in an instant, Erik suspected she was never really mad, and the young woman began giggling again, "Maybe, or maybe we just wouldn't do this as often."

"Well I don't know about you, wife, but that would be a true tragedy."

That stunning smile never left her face as she reached up and landed a peck on his lips, "Worse than any in history, husband."

The two resumed their contented silence. Erik running his massive paw up and down Lynesse's side, and Lynesse quietly tracing the scars along Erik's skin. It made the warrior just a little uneasy every time she did that. He wasn't ticklish and it didn't feel uncomfortable, but for the first time in his life he felt… self-conscience about them. Did she think they were ugly? Was that why she kept her eyes closed? This was a line of thought Erik was terribly unused to. He'd been with plenty of women, and never worried about how his scars might look to them, but now the thought that Lynesse considered it a burden to sleep with him because of them…

"How'd you get so many scars?"

Well it seemed he was about to find out if they were as ugly as he feared, "Why?"

"You match Ser Barristan in skill, and he's not covered in scars."

"Oh? You've been spending time with a shirtless Ser Barristan?"

Another giggle, "What else would I do while you're working on the Royal Fleet all day?"

Erik smiled, "You could come with me you know. You know more about ships than most of the fools in charge of designing this fleet. I don't mind too much though; every little idea you give me that I put forth gets credited to me. They actually think I'm clever."

He could feel her smile against his skin as she curled up closer into him, still running a finger over a particularly nasty C shaped scar where a draugr had plunged a dagger underneath his ribcage.

"You still haven't answered my question."

The Dragonborn sighed, "Well… I'm not nearly as skilled as Ser Barristan, not with the sword anyway."

"But you beat him in that duel…"

"I am not as skilled as Ser Barristan. What I am is bigger, faster, and stronger than he is."

He could practically feel the confusion radiating from his wife, "It didn't look like you were faster…"

"Ser Barristan is a master fencer, with years of training and experience," Erik explained, "He knows many forms of swordplay, many of which help increase the speed with which one can strike. Meanwhile I just kind of… throw my sword around."

No giggle this time, just a low, throaty chuckle that almost made Erik want to try for number four, "Well you look like you know what you're doing… how'd you get this one?"

"Skeever."

Lynesse shifted.

"It's a really, really big rat."

"A rat? You, injured by a rat?" his wife gave another throaty chuckle, "I bet your friends never let you forget that one."

"Oh they forgot all about it," Erik insisted, then lifted his left foot and wiggled the four toes it ended in, "This is the one they never let me forget."

The young woman gasped and immediately sat up upon seeing the nub where his pinkie toe was supposed to be, "What happened to your foot?"

"You people do have crabs on this continent, right?"

Blonde hair spun as she whirled her head to look around at her husband, "You mean to tell me a crab snipped off your toe?"

"Not exactly," the warrior began, "In Skyrim, during the summers the normally frozen tundra can become a giant mud pit. When it's finally warm enough, crabs the size of hounds come out of hibernation."

"I'm starting to think I'd hate a visit to Skyrim," Lynesse said with a horrified expression.

Erik laughed at the thought of his very proper wife in the very improper land of Skyrim, "It's not all bad. Just not all of the rocks are rocks. Sometimes they're huge crabs with a taste for toes… The worst part is I had to hop on one foot for ten miles back to Whiterun. I had no idea I relied so much on one toe just to keep my balance."

"You know my brother Baelor and my sister Alerie once took me swimming when I was a girl. Without knowing it we had accidentally ended up right in the middle of all the cages where fishermen would throw lobsters until they could be brought to market."

A fond smile lit up Lynesse's face as she told her tale, "I remember watching my sister rush out of the water, screaming the whole time. Baelor and I were confused at first, until we saw all the big red lobsters still holding on to her soaking clothes."

Both husband and wife were laughing quietly by now as the young woman continued her tale, "I tried to help her, and only ended up with a lobster holding onto one of my buttcheeks as I ran around in circles screaming!"

"Ooh," Erik rumbled playfully, "Now I'm jealous of the thing. I wish I could walk around with my hand on your ass all day. Might improve my disposition a little bit."

"If you did that you might still be able to feel the little bump still on there from the stupid thing's pincers."

A great big smile lit up his face before he flipped his wife over, "Really now? Might be that I'll take a quick look, see if I can't see anything."

Erik felt her tense up, and could tell she was about to protest at her sudden manhandling when he buried his face between those succulent, pert globes of flesh. After that, there was no more complaints, and the score was even once more.

…

"Wipe that fucking smile off your face!"

Erik just kept smiling even as he turned to the newly knighted Ser Davos Seaworth, "I apologize if the sight of my teeth upsets you, my good Ser. I wouldn't want to upset a knight of your standing!"

Ignoring the jibe at his recent rise in station, the former smuggler shook his head at his new liege lord, "Ever since you got married, all you do is smile like an idiot."

Still smiling, the warrior just replied, "Yeah, yeah I suppose so."

Davos looked the huge man up and down, "That new wife must be a hellcat in between the sheets."

Erik unconsciously rubbed his chest where he could still feel the scratch marks Lynesse had left the night before, "Well, her claws may not be as long or sharp, but she uses them to much the same effect."

Seaworth sighed as he leaned on the railing of the war galley, "I remember when I first married my wife. We lived in the worst slums of King's Landing, had not a thing to our names, but hells if you could keep us from smiling."

"Did you ever smile as much again?"

"When my boys were born," Davos nodded, a glint of pride in his eyes, "Both times I couldn't stop smiling for days, until they kept waking me up in the night, every night. My poor wife, I can't even imagine how much she must hate me right now, though Devan must be old enough to sleep through the night by now."

Hesitation consumed Erik's entire being as a question was working its way through him, "Do you… do you love your wife?"

The former smuggler frowned at the question, "Course I do!"

The warrior nodded and looked over the newly constructed Royal Fleet, watching the men run around the vessels, getting them prepared for the short, but likely dangerous trip to Dragonstone, the island that was to become his new residence, "… How… How do you know?"

"What is with you, lad?" the older man asked, baffled at his young friend's sudden unease before a sudden rush of realization seemed to wash over him, "Ah! You don't know if you love your new wife or not. Bit soon to be head over heels for her yet isn't it?"

"That's what I keep telling myself," Erik nodded. He didn't understand himself lately. He'd fucked plenty of women in the past, and he liked each and every single one. Well maybe not that Thalmor Justiciar, but how else was he supposed to get into the embassy? Pretend he was some sort of ambassador and go to a party? No, much easier to sneak the key off a leggy altmer while she was sleeping and slip in through the cellar in the prison cells. Not that he hadn't enjoyed it, high elves such as that Thalmor and Faralda were… of advanced tastes.

The point remains that none of these women had never really made him feel, at least, not the way Lynesse was making him feel. Sure the sex felt good, but making love to his wife left him satisfied on a level he had rarely experienced. The only thing remotely as satisfying was when he slew Alduin and plunged his blade into Harkon's heart, but even that only faded away to a hollowness in his heart.

Davos chuckled at the young man, "Oh lad, nothing's quiet as complicated as love, except marriage. You'll figure it out, but it's probably best to focus on the task at hand, not your new wife's teats."

Erik smirked, "I'll do my best… Ser."

"Glad to hear it… My Lord."

Over twenty war galleys floated in the waters of the Blackwater Bay, more than half of them were brand new with interesting design innovations that were accredited to Erik. None of them were his idea, they were actually Lynesse's, but as a woman, and the chauvinistic, if somewhat chivalric, attitudes of the men on this continent, if she had voiced them herself they likely would have been shot down simply for having come out of her mouth. As it was, the big man still felt a little guilty for taking credit where it wasn't due, though he did make sure to let Lynesse know her ideas were well received.

One of those ideas was actually being tested on the very galley Erik and Davos were standing on. The hull was sleeker and more streamlined to give the ship greater speed and maneuverability, though the boat was less likely to survive an enemy ship ramming her. But the hull design was already being used on four other ships, what was really different about the galley the two were on was the complex set of sails hanging above their head. Supposedly this same sail design allowed Summer Island swan ships to sail _into_ the wind, rather than just with it, and achieve speeds that oarsmen could only dream of matching.

The true disadvantage was the complexity in operating them. Requiring a dedicated crew that took away from the number of possible oarsmen, meaning their maneuverability and acceleration in tight quarters was extremely limited. As Stannis had put it, the ship was an interceptor. It could run down pirate ships or routed fleets and finish them quickly, but in the dogfights of battle it would be out of its element.

Still, both the ship and crew performed well enough in drills for Stannis to order another twelve built for the Royal Fleet. Not that they would be constructed in time for the assault on Dragonsotne of course, but twenty full sized war ships and nearly forty half sized 'frigates' was enough for Robert to order Erik and Stannis to take Dragonstone in one week's time.

The warrior and the smuggler leaned on the railing, watching one of the new frigates, another of Lynesse's ideas, rock on the gentle waves of the Blackwater. Apparently the boats were based on the designs of Ironborn longships, something remarkably similar to the longships of Skyrim and Atmora, but with wider decks to accommodate ballistae, scorpions, even small scale trebuchets in the case of siege warfare. Small, fast, heavy firepower, and easy to build, it seemed the new ships were quite popular with the new Royal Fleet.

"You know, you have enough favor with Stannis, you could have asked for your own ship to captain," Erik suddenly pointed out, breaking the comfortable silence between the two.

Davos snorted, "Like a bunch of highborn pricks could stomach following my orders. He'd have to give me a crew of common sailors, no knights, no lordlings."

"Sounds like a dream to me," the younger man laughed, "Even now I have to deal with a bunch of fucking lord's sons, chafing under my orders unless I add useless honorifics."

"Oh that's why I'm here," the former smuggler said with a smile as he clapped the huge man on the back, "To keep you from killing all the highborn cunts!"

Erik smirked, "Careful there, we're highborn cunts now!"

"Bah!," the older man dismissed, "We'll always be peasants in their eyes. You might be a lord, and I might be a knight, but they'll always see a blacksmith and a smuggler."

"Well then… Long may they sneer!"

Both Davos and Erik raised imaginary mugs in toast before turning back to their ship.

The Sot Dovah, Erik's personal ship that he would even be able to keep after Dragonstone was captured. The King and the Crown Prince had both asked him what sort of name Sot Dovah was, but the Dragonborn was reluctant to answer truthfully, and given the two a bald faced lie. He could have named it something a little less conspicuous, but if it was going to be his ship, he was going to name it whatever he damn well pleased. Besides, what were the chances they would believe that it was in the language of dragons?

Unlikely, Eddard hadn't believed him about dragons in Skyrim, nor had Lynesse believed him about giants, so it was unlikely that two of the most closed minded individuals he had ever met would either.

That was, perhaps, unfair. Stannis may not have believed everything about the Night of Tears, but he had listened to Erik, and he had taken vital lessons from the story. In fact, the young man seemed intent on learning everything he possibly can from the older man, until he was put in charge of the Royal Fleet anyway. It seemed that Stannis was of the mind that leaders can't ask for help from those under their command, under any circumstances. Something that would have to change.

The second Baratheon brother was by far his favorite, which is what troubled Erik so much. The young Prince was headed down a dark path. Seeing insults and slights behind every word, seeing only lies in every smile, and never trusting the council of those closest to him. If this kept up, he would end up alienating everyone around him, and eventually doing something incredibly foolish because he wouldn't trust the people who told him it was foolish.

It was clear the young man hadn't received much love from anyone in his youth, or at least, hadn't been shown any. Which was probably why he really didn't like the eldest Baratheon and King of the Seven Kingdom's Robert. The man was loud, unruly, and vain. Maybe he would be a good king, it was unlikely in Erik's opinion, but it wasn't outside the realm of possibility. One thing that was firmly outside the realm of possibility was a friendship between Erik and Robert, something about his personality rubbed the warrior the wrong way, it was just unfortunate that the feeling was not mutual.

Still, he owed the King for this new ship and his new wife. He wasn't quite sure if he should thank the man for his lordship, but it was technically a reward.

"My Lord, the derelicts are in position, we're ready to proceed on your order!"

Erik turned to the sailor, his ship's navigator, a member of an incredibly minor House of the Crownlands. A fourth son of a fifth son or so he was told.

"Let us begin then, Ser."

The ship shuddered gently beneath his feet as the sails unfurled and caught the calm breeze.

…

The sails snapped taught against the mast as the stormy winds threatened to rip them from the riggings. Sot Dovah shook as the bow split another large, frothy wave in two. Erik stood at the bow of the war galley, ebony plate replaced with black leathers, lest he fall into the water and sink like a stone. The warrior shook his head as a salty spray came over the railing and splashed his already soaked form.

Though it was only just a few hours past midday, one could hardly tell. Pitch black clouds blanketed the sky, pouring rain, whipping up waves, and lashing out with ferocious bolts of lightning. It was thanks to these physical manifestations of the sky's frustration that the crew of the Sot Dovah was managing to navigate the battle that was raging within the furious storm's boundaries.

The world flashed white, painting the image of a ship flying a flag sporting a three headed dragon, and it was alarmingly close.

Erik turned to the other end of the ship, where his friend and vassal Davos Seaworth stood at the wheel, waiting on his command. With an emphatic wave of this hand, the giant man gave it, and the former smuggler followed it, spinning the wheel with practiced ease, despite the rough conditions of the sea.

The bow of the Sot Dovah swung starboard with such speed the Dragonborn could feel his stomach try and leave his body through his back at the force of the turn. A sailor manning the ballistae on the starboard bow lost his footing and was nearly thrown from the deck and into the pitch black waters below. Fortunately for the man, a large leather bound hand snatched out and snagged his leg.

As Erik held on to the railing and the sailor, he heard the sound of wood snapping over the raging sea and the furious thunder. They had timed it perfectly, the bow of the Dovah was plowing through the enemy ship's oars. The enemy galley had lost their maneuverability, and with the unpredictable wind of the storm, they may as well be dead in the water, something that the Dovah's new sails were able to work around, giving the ship a surprising advantage for the duration of the battle.

"ARCHERS!" Erik bellowed across the deck, his booming voice piercing the sound of battle and thunder, "POKE EM FULL OF HOLES! BOARDERS! GET YOUR ASSES IN GEAR, WE'VE GOT A SHIP CAPTURE!"

A dozen men with longbows or crossbows scrambled to the port railing, pelting the crew of the enemy vessel with arrows and bolts. The Loyalists wasted no time responding, and a few of Dovah's crew were turned into pincushions, but the Dragonborn's crew were far more efficient and well trained. Archers concentrated fire on the crossbowmen of the other ship while the other soldiers grabbed some planks and some spears, ready to board the Loyalist vessel.

"ARCHER'S HOLD!" He boomed, the order punctuated by a crack of thunder, "BOARDERS… CHARGE!"

Soldiers in the new livery of House Stormcrown charged for the railing, the first line holding planks, the rest charging with weapons drawn. Lord Stormcrown didn't even bother waiting for his men to set the crossing planks, instead choosing to take the aerial route.

A man in Targaryen colors had an oaken shield held high, probably to ward off any more arrows or crossbow bolts. Instead it provided an excellent landing platform for Erik as he smashed into it, sending the man at arms flying across the deck, knocking several of his own comrades to the ground in the process. The others who remained standing never had a chance to raise their defenses.

Skyforge steel cut one man's arm off, coating Erik's black leathers in red blood. Spinning on his heel with grace that didn't belong to a man standing on the deck of a ship in the middle of a storm, the Dragonborn disemboweled another man, spilling the unfortunate man's intestines onto the deck. The third man managed to raise his spear in some sort of defense, and only succeeded in having his weapon cut in half and his head cleaved in two vertically.

A pirouette saw Storm's Wrath slapping aside a sloppy stab. Erik slid past the stumbling sailor with a downwards slash that cut the man's leg off halfway up the thigh. A trio of sailors were eyeing Erik warily, having chosen to proceed cautiously. Their delay was costly, however, as a group of marines decked in black and white leathers smashed into the trio and quickly engaged the rest of the Loyalist crew.

The Dragonborn couldn't be certain if it was simply momentum, training, or the amount of rest each crew had, but it seemed like the marines of the Sot Dovah were carving through the Loyalist sailors with little to no difficulty. It couldn't be rest, the battle between the Baratheon and Targaryen fleets had been raging for some time, and the crew of the Sot Dovah were responsible for capturing no less than six Targaryen war galleys, while this galley had been hanging near the edge of the battle.

Erik leaned to one side, letting an ax pass by with naught but a swoosh of air. The man wielding the ax did not pass by so easily however, as he lost his arm and a good portion of his shoulder with it. Blood spilled onto the deck, followed shortly by the man it was once inside.

The sound of steel pounding against wood caught the warrior's attention. A knight in Targaryen colors was striding for him, greatsword in hand. Apparently this man had the foolish notion that wearing full plate armor was a good idea, or perhaps he had succumbed to the pressure to appear manly, to show that he wasn't afraid of drowning.

A particularly harsh wave struck the ship, shaking everyone on it, but the knight's steel soles had little traction on the rain soaked deck, and slipped from his feet. Before he could make to stand the wave pushed the war galley into a heavy tilt, causing the knight to start sliding across the decking. Erik simply sidestepped the man as he slid past and right through a ruined section of railing. A splash was all the confirmation the warrior needed to know that the fool was dead.

"Idiot," he mumbled under his breath before bellowing harshly, "BELOW DECKS! SECURE THE SHIP AND FOR FUCK'S SAKE, SOMEONE TEAR THAT EYESORE DOWN!"

At his words the marines finished their business with what few defenders remained above deck and quickly beat down the door that led below deck. Even as they were doing that, a nimble and surefooted lad quickly and easily scaled the main mast of the galley to cut down the Targaryen banner that flew from there.

Erik wasn't lying when he called it an eyesore. Though he couldn't care less about the Targaryen family, their banner was perhaps the dumbest looking thing he had ever seen. Yet somehow it had garnered the utmost respect by everyone on this stupid continent for the past three hundred years. Even now, the three headed dragon gave a man a foot shorter than himself the courage to try and fight him and the Baratheon's to their dying breath.

The captain and about five other men stood on the upper deck of the ship in front of Erik, weapons drawn, looking for a fight. None of them were soldiers, clearly, but at the order of their captain, they seemed ready to fight.

The boat rocked under their feet, and there was the sound of clashing steel beneath the deck, though it was quieting quickly.

"You've lost," the Lord of Dragonstone proclaimed, still having to speak up over the whipping winds and booming thunder, "Throw down your arms and I'll let you live."

The captain seemed unperturbed by the tone Erik had taken, and was clearly quite confident in his own abilities as he brandished his weapon, "Not while I still draw breath you fucking traitor!"

The warrior paused at the zeal in the man's voice, considered him carefully… and took two long steps, snapped the captain's wrist when he tried to swing his sword, then tossed him over the edge and into the writhing sea below.

"I won't make this offer a third time!"

Steel clattered agains the deck and all dropped to their knees, hands behind their heads. Marines from the Sot Dovah quickly bound them and gathered them with the rest of the men who had surrendered the ship.

More lightning flashes, showing Erik how the rest of the battle was fairing. Those little frigate ships had made a massive impact on the battle. Quickly swarming large war galleys with superior maneuverability and lighting them aflame. The battle was clearly drawing to a close, though the storm showed no sign of slowing, the Targaryen's taking the worst of both. Three galleys were nothing but burning husks in the water, another three were no longer flying the three headed dragon. Two remained, and they were being swarmed by frigates, their sails already aflame despite the rain and howling winds.

Darkness returned, showing only the fires on ships, and the signal lanterns the ships of the Baratheon fleet were using to communicate. A glance to the southwest showed the signal lantern on Stannis' flagship, the young prince choosing to avoid the confrontation himself, and instead direct the fleet from afar, where he had the best view.

There were mutterings among his crew about the supposed cowardice of the act, whispers that Erik quickly put an end to. Stannis was a fine fighter, and a fine tactician, but even the most experienced warrior generals have a hard time directing troops and fighting on the front at the same time. Prince Stannis was wise in his decision to stay on the border of the fight along with a small escort. Several times already he had relayed important orders through those lanterns, orders that had led to the utter decimation of the enemy fleet.

As he looked to set of lanterns marking Stannis' ship in the pitch black sea, one lights near the stern began to flicker. At this distance, one could have mistaken it for a dying candle, if it wasn't for the deliberate pattern in the flashes. Erik muttered to himself as he deciphered the code being signaled to him.

"WILLEM!" the warrior bellowed over the howling winds and pounding rain, "WHERE THE FUCK IS WILLEM?!"

"M'lord!" a voice came from below decks, "I'm here!"

Erik looked down through the iron grating over the ship's hold and spotted his lieutenant, "Orders from the prince! Storm's dying down and we're moving on Dragonstone! Keep ten men, get this ship out of the battle and out of the storm!"

"M'lord!"

The lowborn marine started barking orders to the men on the ship as the Dragonborn strode back to his own ship. The storm may have been dying down, but the two vessels were still bucking in the rough seas, forcing more than a few gangplanks to fall into the foamy seawater below. The fact didn't bother the big man however, he had been in rough waters in his youth, even fought alongside his mother in a nasty hurricane near the coast of Valenwood when he was fourteen. Balancing on a thin wooden plank over perilous waters between two bucking ships was no problem.

"SEAWORTH! COME ABOUT, WE'RE GOING TO MAKE A LANDING!"

"IN THIS WEATHER?" the former smuggler shouted from the upper deck, projecting his voice through the boom of a thunderstrike, "YOU MUST BE MAD!"

"JUST PUT US AS CLOSE AS YOU CAN!"

Erik's rough hands reached out and grabbed a line, "QUARTER SAIL YOU CUNTS! DON'T WANT TO SMASH INTO THE ROCKS!"

The crew was exceptionally well trained, especially for such a short training period. The men obeyed the words from Erik's mouth as though they had come from these damned Seven themselves, and threw themselves into learning the workings of the vessel. The payoff was evident as the Sot Dovah easily handled the rough seas and weathered the immense storm with little damage. Never mind the battle that had raged within the pitch black clouds.

Davos' experience from his smuggling days shown through with expert piloting, skillfully avoiding reefs and damaged vessels in the waters as they slunk closer to the small harbor spread before the looming castle of Dragonstone. Erik had his own experience handling sails, keeping just enough canvas bared to allow his vassal to properly steer, but not so much that the ship could get taken by a strong wind and veer into the jagged rocks jutting from the sea.

"NO CLOSER ERIK! CAN'T RISK IT!"

"LOWER THE ROWBOATS! WE'RE GOING FOR A WALK!"

The sailors quickly heeded his orders, the wind was still howling, threatening to dash any vessel manned by an inattentive crew against the rocks, but the harbor ensured that the waves were small enough for any smaller boats could navigate the treacherous water safely. Marines rushed in and out of the Dovah's hold, grabbing armor, shields, and weapons too large to be properly wielded in the tight quarters of a galley's deck. One such soldier, a knight from a distant branch of House Celtigar, came out carrying a large sack, and a long handled ax.

"Ser Edwell," even an acknowledgement required shouting in the storm.

"My Lord!" the knight responded as he did his best to lift Wuuthrad up to him with one hand. Erik relieved Edwell of his somewhat emasculating burden while snatching his ebony plate held in the sack. The two turned towards one of the boats being prepared for a landing.

"I'm splitting the assault force into two groups," the Lord of Dragonstone informed the young knight, "I'm placing you in command of the second one."

"I won't fail you My Lord!" Ser Edwell exclaimed excitedly, nearly falling over the side of the boat in his haste to show how good he was at saluting.

Erik grabbed him by the shoulder before he could capsize the small vessel and pushed him back onto the bench. He barked an order at the oarsmen to get going and returned to his vassal knight, "For Talos' sake boy don't piss yourself, I'm not fucking flattering you, I'm holding you responsible for the safe return of half my marines."

The knight nodded, though eagerness was still shining through his eyes, "I want you to take twenty archers and ten swordsmen, secure the landing zone, get to high ground, and cover myself and my men as we push through the front gate."

"My Lord forgive me, but how will you take the threshold?" Edwell asked. A surprisingly astute question, perhaps he wasn't as dull as the rest of these highborn louts, "You have no ram, no siege weapons."

"There are long range ballistae on the Sot Dovah," Erik explained, "When you've taken the docks and I've taken the village, we'll signal for Ser Davos to launch bolts covered in pitch. We'll burn that bitch down."

Edwell nodded, eager seemed to be his default attitude, something that, while annoying, was certainly usable, "A fine plan My Lord! We will root out these…"

"Stop right there," the large man declared, "Don't fucking praise me until this is over. Who knows how many men are in this castle, chances are we break down that door and get thrown back into the sea."

The young knight seemed to understand, and ceased his pointless flattery as the boat approached the shoreline. No resistance could be spotted, but the clouds, despite the lessening storm, still blotted the sky and made it difficult to see anything more than a hundred feet away.

The wind was dying, and quickly, bellowing was no longer necessary to relay orders and a stealthy approach was looking more and more possible. Lightning no longer lit up the world and the thunder strikes were distant rumblings as the marines began donning the heavy armor that would have caused them to sink like a stone in the water, but provided much needed protection on land.

"Celtigar!" Erik whispered harshly, the knight looking up quickly as he finished fastening his red breastplate, "Get your men in order and establish a perimeter while we get geared."

Edwell nodded and breathed in sharply but was stopped by a massive hand grabbing his arm and pulling him off balance, "And do it quietly!"

Soon enough the Lord of Dragonstone was leading thirty marines with heavy iron shields and chainmail up the stony slope and into the small fishing village below the castle. Hopefully the Celtigar had heeded his orders and set his group along the high ground. Erik couldn't imagine that the commander of Dragonstone's defenses had chosen to garrison his forces in tattered shacks one could only laughingly call homes, particularly with how hard the storm had been raging only hours before, but these Westerosi didn't seem to actually have common sense. Besides, if they had actually been stupid enough to put valuable soldiers in the small village and by some miracle survived the storm, then the Dragonborn and his marines would be surrounded instantly.

His group kept to the shadows, their dark colored armor easily blending into the black rock of the island, and was soon approaching the castle walls. It was odd how the village and the castle blended, or rather, didn't blend. There were no outlying defenses, no space between the huts and shacks of fishermen and the almost titanic onyx colored walls. One of the bolder villagers had even taken to supporting his shack against the colossal pile of granite.

No matter, if these people cared so little for their own security, Erik would ensure they wouldn't ever have to worry about it again.

At least the villagers were gone, probably weathering the storm inside the castle. Certainly better than out here, in their leaky huts made of rotted wood that smelled like… like…

A flash of light at the top of the wall drew the warrior's attention and dropped his stomach straight to his boots as he watched a dozen men in Targaryen livery draw back burning arrowheads.

"AWAY FROM THE HOUSES! GET THE FUCK DOWN!"

The rains had been hard and relentless, the wind ferocious, but the pitch had been on the wood for days, soaking into the wood, even providing a protective barrier that let the water slide right off without the huts even getting wet. Unfortunately, it also made the damn village go up like wildfyre.

 _At least there's no fucking explosions this time,_ Erik thought to himself as he tackled a marine to the ground before the rapidly expanding flames scorched the poor man to a crisp.

"TURTLE SHELL!" he bellowed as he pulled the man to his feet, "FUCKING TURTLE SHELL YOU WHORESONS!"

The order was quickly obeyed, but when the gates slammed open, Erik only had one thought.

 _Fucking brilliant…_

He'd been outmaneuvered, easily and readily. Like a novice he had let himself be drawn into a trap. The easy approach, no resistance right up to the walls, he should have seen it coming. He was so _stupid!_

Fire had driven them into the main road leading to the docks, a nice open space with no cover. The threat of archers had forced them to assume a rigid standing formation with little lateral maneuverability. He and his men were easy pickings for the two dozen knights barreling down on them on horseback.

Erik was frozen as he watched the mounted knights raise their weapons, getting closer with every second. One Shout, he could obliterate them, end twenty four lives as easily and quickly as saying three words. He could roast them alive, disintegrate their bodies, freeze them in place, rip them to shreds with razor snow, and it would save the lives of his men, all of them, but what would be the unforeseen consequences? Why was he thinking about this? What did it matter if his life was ruined if the soldiers under his protection were saved? But it wasn't just his life, there was Lynesse to think about, her life, the lives of any children they might have, would be ruined.

Before any decision had to be made, however, a hail of steel broadheads rained down from the right, cutting through the mounted knights with vicious efficiency.

"Oh I'm gonna give you so many fucking lands Edwell," Erik breathed, "You beautiful son of a bitch!"

"FORM UP! SPEAR TIP ON ME!"

The marines quickly lined up behind him, creating a wedge with which they would drive through the remaining cavalry. Arrows had stopped falling from the sky, the surprisingly competent Ser Edwell Celtigar having shifted his archers to focus on the enemy crossbow men that had hoped to start pelting Erik's men as they advanced.

One of the surviving mounted knights managed to gather his bearings and came charging in towards the marines, wisely choosing to avoid the tip where the formidable giant of a man led the group. It didn't make him any safer, however, when a spear flew from the center of the formation, striking his horse just in front of the shoulder and sending the knight flying from his horse.

"FINISH HIM!"

The enemy knight, in his heavy plate armor, struggled to stagger to his feet, only to be met with the quick and lethal sword strikes that had been drilled into the marines whenever they weren't learning how to handle the ship. Nothing flashy, and they hadn't been trained to duel in the traditional fighting style of knights, instead learning a quick, precise series of slashes and stabs designed to disarm and eliminate.

The knight fell dead and one of his compatriots felt obliged to avenge him by charging the head of the wedge formation. Erik didn't even bother reacting to the charging soldier as the marine to his right jumped forward and stuck his spear into the horse's flank and drove it the ground. The beast's body crushed its rider's leg. Wuuthrad put him out of his misery and the soldiers simply stepped over the body as they continued their march.

Three mounted men thought that by charging together they might be able to scatter the forty soldiers slowly marching up the road. Normally they'd be right, but whatever the Dragonborn involved himself in was typically far from normal.

With a mighty heave, Wuuthrad was flying end over end at the middle knight, the massive ebony head impaling itself on the man's shield and lifting him from his saddle. The riderless horse immediately veered to Erik's left, throwing that cavalryman off and leaving the warrior just the one on the right to contend with.

The knight lashed out with his sword and succeeded only in dulling his blade against the white dragon emblazoned on the ebony shield. A massive gauntleted hand snatched his sword belt and pulled him from the horse, throwing him head first into the stone road. A quick stomp spread grey matter on the worn stone road.

The knight that had been thrown from his saddle by Wuuthrad was currently trying to wrench the massive battleaxe from its new home. Forsaking his doomed quest to pull the ax from the oak, this plain armored, uncolored knight brandished his sword and received a spear to his gut from the man on Erik's left.

On one side of the street was the last rider, backed into the side of a flaming shack by four marines. The horse bucked and whinnied at the smell of the bloody weapons and burning heat of the flames behind it. The knight clearly was not a terribly experienced rider as he lost control, his animal tossing him into the fire before bolting from the battle.

"CHARGE!"

The formation broke, no longer facing heavily armored knights on mounts, they broke into the courtyard. The garrison holding the castle had been depleted heavily by the war. Many of the men had probably been serving the in fleet they had smashed, and the knights that had ridden out in a desperate attempt at stalling them had been the last. Some of the veteran soldiers still put up resistance, out of habit more than anything, but many of the former fishermen that had had their rods and nets replaced with a sword and shield simply threw down their arms at the sight of trained soldiers led by an ebony clad giant.

…

"Merciful Mara, I thought I'd be used to the smell by now."

Davos snickered at his liege's reaction to the stench of King's Landing as he guided the Sot Dovah nearer the docks, "Been living here all my life… You don't get used to it, you just get better at hiding how much it bothers you."

"Why would anyone live here?"

"Work."

Erik nodded at that, "Fair enough."

Davos directed the men to start bringing the vessel into the pier properly before turning back to his lord, "So, how do you think His Grace will handle news of your failure?"

"The capture of the Targaryens wasn't my objective, the capture of Dragonstone was."

"Is that why you let the boy and his baby sister get away?"

Erik's face grew stony, "I don't know what you're talking about."

Seaworth nodded, "Course not."

The pair made their way to the lower deck and to the planks leading to the pier, "By the way, what's the plan for all those ships we captured?"

"Prince Stannis informed me that any ships captured by the Dovah were ours to keep," the warrior replied.

The smaller man sprouted a wry grin on his bearded face, "For a blacksmith, you've got quite an impressive fleet."

The tan giant smirked back at the scruffy man, "For a smuggler, you've got a nice ship."

Davos stopped, staring at his liege, "The fuck does that mean?"

"I'm giving you the pick of ships from the battle," Erik said before placing a massive paw on his new friend's shoulder, "and then you can stuff it with all the lowborn pricks you want… Captain."

The former smuggler gawked as his lord walked down the pier towards the waiting welcoming party.

Erik's face split into a broad smile as he saw his wife wating for him by a wheelhouse. It briefly bothered him that she hadn't rode a horse down, she loved riding, but figured that perhaps she was merely doing what was expected of her. Lynesse, perfectly beautiful Lynesse, there was a small smile gracing her fair face as she watched him approach, though there was something akin to apprehension in her stunning blue eyes.

"My Lord Husband," she greeted demurely in front of the representatives of the Red Keep. Unfortunately for his wife, Lord Stormcrown was not as keen on putting up a tasteful show as his Lady Wife.

A small squeal was all she managed to get off as her salty, sweaty, dirty husband lifted her right off the ground and planted his lips on hers. Some of the pricks standing in their little group adopted disgusted looks at the supposedly boorish act, but Erik couldn't find himself to care at that moment, he was far to wrapped up in the wonderful taste of Lynesse's lips and the arousing feeling of her sleek, slender body pressed up against his.

Despite probably upsetting her, she did return the kiss with some passion of her own. Good, she missed him too. After what was undoubtedly an inappropriate amount of time, the pair finally separated, and Erik put his wife back on the ground.

Blushing beautifully, as was the fashion in which she did everything, Lynesse wiped her swollen lips before smiling up at him shyly, "I'm pregnant."

Erik's smile dropped and shock consumed his entire body as his wife's shy look slipped into a coy smile, "Since we're being blunt."

 **Despite how stupid this ending might seem to some of you, I really like it. I'm not sure why… It just seems to fit with this idea I have of Lynesse in my head, or at least of what she will become. I know in canon she was a spoiled brat, but she doesn't show up much even in the books, so I'm pretty much going to play with her character as much as I want.**

 **Anyway, next chapter is going to be a time skip. Probably a year or two, just enough time so we can get to the point where Erik is struggling with both his lordship and his marriage. He's hardly going to be perfect you know.**

 **Some of you might be disappointed with the way I did the naval battle, and the way I described the fleet, but I just want you to know I did my best. If it gets a negative enough reaction then I'll probably refrain from doing them again, but I thought I'd try my hand at describing a naval battle and with designing some medieval period war ships myself.**

 **Just so you know, chapters are going to be few and far between for a while now. We're getting close to wrapped up at my current jobsite, and that means seven twelve hour days for me, which means less time for writing. A lot less.**

 **I know you guys are wondering when I'll bring in the Skyrim characters, and to you I just have to say be patient. It'll probably be two or three chapters from now before Erik makes a return to his maternal homeland. But that actually brings me to a point I wanted to bring up with you guys. I'm considering bringing Erik's sisters into the story as well. I've hinted at them before, but never gone into detail on them, mostly because I haven't worked the details out, but I was wondering if you guys think that's something I should pursue, or fuck it.**

 **Leave a review, don't want to write, what you don't want to read.**


	8. Chapter 8

Ser Davos spun the wheel of the lethal Sot Dovah. The sun was high in the sky, just past the zenith, and beating down harshly on the interceptor as it plowed through the choppy water of the Narrow Sea. Wind snapped at black sails, waves split before a brass coated ram and ran under the smooth, streamlined hull. Men were spread across the deck, relaying orders from the bridge to the rest of the ship. The sailors at the riggings were clad in nothing but roughspun trousers and stained baggy shirts, so as to not overheat in the powerful sun, but the majority of the men on the deck were in the uniformed armor of marines belonging to House Stormcrown.

The marines were pacing the deck, hauling planks from below and quickly nailing them together in long four foot high barricades. Those that weren't exercising their carpentry were stringing giant longbows and running arrow caches to suitable locations. The men on both this ship, and the twenty others in Lord Erik's small but growing fleet were well trained, and thanks to recent policies, had been battle tested as well.

Sharp brown eyes surveyed the seas, taking in Ser Davos Seaworth's target. A lone pirate ship, described just as the fishermen had described to his Lord just a week prior. Gilded, triangular sails, a low deck, narrow profile, and a single ballista mounted at the front. Everything about the ship screamed predator. Designed to quickly overtake heavily laden merchant ships, disorient the crew with pitch covered bolts from the ballista, and grab anything of value before scurrying back to whatever hole they had crawled out of in the first place.

The Sot Dovah was a fast ship, fastest of all the warships owned by any Westerosi House, but its sheer size had meant it would never catch the sleek pirate ship from behind, even with oars in the water. It had taken days, but Davos was a master smuggler before his lord and his king had seen fit to make him a legitimate knight, manufacturing speed, angles of pursuit, those were his specialties.

After some skillful, if the knight might be so bold, navigation, the Sot Dovah and her skilled crew had the pirate vessel in its grasp.

"Make sure the archers don't light their arrows," Davos spoke to the quartermaster, a commoner by birth, much like Seaworth, but had distinguished himself amongst his comrades and earned himself a payraise, "I want that vessel intact and taken with us back to Dragonstone. Perhaps Lord Stormcrown may find some use for it."

Davos' second in command bellowed orders down to the marines on the deck as the skilled sailor spun the wheel again, taking a sharper angle on the pirates.

"Artillery, single shot, cut their driver sail."

"BALLISTA! STARBOARD MID DECK! CUT THE DRIVER OFF THAT MOLDY TUB!"

One man threw his weight at a crank that controlled the lateral movement of the oversized crossbow at the direction of the sergeant in charge of the artillery on the starboard deck. The sergeant then pulled the pin holding the ballista level and took control of the weight, waiting for the Dovah to crest a wave, that being perhaps the only time the ship was going to be still enough for an accurate shot.

A wave split in half, and the ship held still for a brief second…

Wood splintered as a heavy steel bolt smashed through the rigging holding the driver sail in place. Gilded canvas flapped uselessly in the wind as the pirate vessel pitched forward, losing its ability to tack into the wind and nearly driving to a stop as the front end kicked port.

Seaworth spun the wheel, narrowly avoiding the ship, and spinning the Sot Dovah around and alongside the smaller craft, "Boarders."

"MARIIIIIIINES! You know what's next! Centurions front, archers give cover! LET'S GO!" the second in command barked down at the milling soldiers on deck.

Sailors through iron treble hooks over the edge of the railing, grappling onto the railing of the pirate ship. The lines were tied to the mast as heavily armored marines threw iron shackles over the ropes. The deck railing fell over and the four Centurions leapt off the edge, holding onto the iron shackles as they slid down the lines.

House Stormcrown had only a few loyal knights, Ser Davos himself counting among them, and he could barely hold his own against a scurvy crippled pirate. Erik made up for that shortcoming, by creating his marines. Soldiers assigned to vessels, but able to operate on land and sea with no issue. Each marine was far better equipped and trained than the typical token force kept by most lords to garrison their castle, and Centurions were the best of the bunch. On a level with knights, four against a crew of seventy pirates was overkill.

Short swords cut through the rag clad crew of Summer Islanders, Lyseni, and Braavosi, painting the splintered deck red. So efficient in their grisly work, the Centurions had learned early on to wear special boots, so as not to slip in the blood of their enemies and fall overboard. Their armor was quality craftsmanship, their swords, weapons earned upon attaining the rank, were forged by Lord Stormcrown himself, and each one showed it. Their edge was finer, and held longer, than any castle forged steel sword in Westeros.

One Centurion cornered a dozen pirates against the bow, killing any who tried to escape past him. Another slew the captain and the rest of the officers on the bridge. Screams could be heard from the hold as the other two did their bloody work below deck.

"Think there will be good haul from this one?" the quartermaster asked from behind Davos.

The executive officer looked back and shrugged, "They were a little slower than they should have been, personally, I'm just glad we finally get to hang on to this stuff. Lord Stormcrown finally came to his senses."

Davos frowned, "Watch your tongue, if not for the Lord you'd still be a drunkard wallowing in a pool of your own piss. He gave you a second chance, made something out of you, you'd do well not to insult him."

The man raised his arms in defense, "I have nothing but thanks for our Lord, but you have to admit, it's a lot better for us all that we get to keep the cargo the pirates stole. My pay has certainly benefitted."

 _More than just your pay,_ Seaworth thought as the Centurions that had gone below deck finally came out, giving the all clear signal. The knight quickly set about organizing crews to go over and drag out the bodies, clean the vessel, transfer the cargo, and crew the ship to bring it back to Dragonstone. A lot of organizing and delegating for a former smuggler. His life had gotten a lot more complicated, but Davos couldn't deny that this line of work paid better, and was more consistent, and his wife was happier, his sons were growing up in relative wealth and learning to become knights, they'll grow to be men of influence and power, and it was all thanks to Lady Stormcrown.

Well, some credit to his friend Erik, he was the generous one, but it was painfully obvious the young man still had a lot to learn about the finer points of ruling. He was an excellent leader, a smart tactician, and more charismatic than King Robert Baratheon, but when it came to the logistics of ruling. Trade, politics, resources, the people… A wife like Lynesse Stormcrown was exactly what Erik needed to survive the early years of his

That's not to say everything was peachy. There was a lot of tension between Erik and Lynesse at first, fortunately the former Hightower was as tenacious as she was beautiful, not to mention it was hard to stay angry at the mother of your children. Slowly, she had managed to convince him to get rid of some of his more naïve policies, though even Davos was able to pick up some tension that still lingered between the two.

"Odd though, ain't it?"

Seaworth was brought back to the moment by the commanding Centurion stepping up to the bridge.

"They didn't put up much of a fight, but had a gods damned fortune settin down there in the hold."

The quartermaster had a confused expression on his face, "And? The fuck you on about?"

"How'd they get the gold?" the Centurion explained, "For that matter, how'd they get that rickety tub going so fast as to outrun the Dovah?"

All three bridge officers scrunched their faces, but Davos was the only one who spoke, "You think they were receiving aid?"

The Centurion, a man of not quite twenty five years, shrugged, "Don't know, but Lord Stormcrown didn't train me to ignore odd happenings. Which is why I grabbed this…"

The former smuggler looked at the book in the young man's hands and promptly felt his eyes trying to leave his skull. The book was large, and took both hands for the Centurion to keep a grip on it, but rather than the dark leather most texts were bound in, the material encasing the pages was almost fleshy in appearance, and almost seemed to be squirming in the warrior's grip. A thick iron band crossed from one cover to the other, and a thick steel padlock kept the book closed, though there didn't appear to be a keyhole.

On the front cover was some sort of symbol that almost looked like a closed eye. An eye that could open at any time. The pages looked wet, but waterlogged, more like they were secreting slime. Brass bands covered the edges, and horrifying images were carved into the shiny metal.

"What… is that?" Davos asked.

"Don't know…" the Centurion shrugged, "Seems important though."

…

Lynesse beamed at the two new lives in her arms. Sweet, perfect little brown haired angels. This was the third time she had given birth, and the experience had not dulled in the slightest. If anything, this time had hurt worse than any of them, though she did give birth to two of them this time.

"Any thoughts on names?"

The former Hightower looked up to her husband, the huge, hard, brutish, and frightening looking man seemed terribly nervous as he looked down at the twins sleeping soundly in the crooks of her arms. He had the same look in his eyes when Baelor was born, and again when Rayya had come into the world. It seemed the experience was unchanged for the both of them.

"I got to name Baelor, and you got to name Rayya," the beautiful blonde said tiredly, "Perhaps this time we should switch. I'll name the girl, you can name the boy."

The giant of a man gently laid next to her on the recently changed sheets and put one thick arm around her shoulder, pulling her close and cradling the girl in her right arm against his chest.

"What were you thinking of naming her?"

Lynesse rested her head against his shoulder, it had been a day since she had given birth, but she could still feel just a touch of sweat beading on her forehead, and it gave her the chills so the warm shoulder felt nice.

"My mother died when I was very young, before I had a chance to really know her, but my sister, Alerie, was more than just a substitute."

"That was the same logic you used to get the name Baelor…"

She looked up at him, "You don't approve?"

Erik chuckled gently, "No. Just find it interesting that you have always considered your two elder siblings your parents. Makes me think of my sisters, about what kind of lives they may have back in Hammerfell."

Lady Stormcrown looked into her husband's face, "You're worried for them."

The man reached a large, calloused finger down to stroke the newly named Alerie's cheek as gently as Lynesse had come to expect from the dangerous man.

"Concerned, not necessarily worried though. I left nearly a decade ago, so my father must have gone completely gray by now, but he was still the best smith in Hammerfell, brought in plenty of gold. I'm sure they're fine, though they may wonder exactly what happened to me."

The yet unnamed boy shifted in her left arm, and began to wail as he woke up, as newborn babes were wont to do. Lynesse was ready to try and comfort the boy, but a large hand reached down and scooped the boy up before she had the chance.

"And what are we going to name you, little man?"

The babe's wailing muted almost instantly as he was cradled against his father's chest, instead choosing a sort of soft cooing as his wide eyes looked up at his father intently.

"I don't know how you do that," the new mother of four asked with disbelief, "first Baelor, then Rayya, and now this little one. It seems all our children like you more than me…"

Erik snorted, "Baelor is terrified of me! And Rayya is just a nameday old, she can't even speak beyond occasional babbling, so there's no telling if she even likes anything at all!"

Sky blue eyes rolled, "Baelor is not terrified of you. He idolizes you! He thinks you're the Father Himself!"

"But he always runs to his mother when he's scared," the warrior pointed out as he waggled a finger in the little boy's face, letting the baby grab ahold and play with the appendage.

Alerie chose that moment to wake up, but rather than wail for attention like her brother, she instead chose to squirm, apparently eager to get exploring.

"What are you going to name him?" Lynesse asked as she tucked the girl deeper into her bosom.

"He has long hair for a baby."

The former Hightower scrunched up her beautiful face, "So?"

Erik shook his head, "He just… reminds me, of a man I knew. The best man I ever knew. He was a brother to me, a constant friend, and an anchor that always kept me grounded to what was important in this world…"

"Sounds like you have a name picked out…"

"Farkas."

…

"Incomes have risen greatly in the past month, My Lord, but it is far from enough to pursue this venture of yours," Maester Pylos, a tall, thin man with a mousy face and black hair that hung just above his shoulders, "These, marines of yours, cost far more than the soldiers maintained by other lords, and the numbers you would have…"

Erik sent the smaller man a glare that could melt stone. The maester felt the need to point out, at every possible juncture, just how unorthodox his rule was. The skinny scholar also felt the need to point out how much more cost efficient it was to just follow tradition. But the blacksmith's son in him, the young boy who used to pull a cart filled with father's work to market, who used to pass through streets filled with the poor and suffering. There were ways to change it, he just had to figure out how.

At first he though to simply give money to the poor, something that had gone over poorly. Giving everyone more gold to spend only raised the prices of goods. That was when his wife of all people had started giving him lectures in economics, something that had gone over poorly with his own ego.

He loved the woman, even if she didn't expressly feel the same. She had given him a son and had another on the way at the time, but for her, a spoilt, noble born girl who had never wanted for anything to lecture him on how best to help his own people… If it hadn't been for the birth of a healthy Rayya, Erik wasn't sure Alerie nor Farkas would have had the chance to be conceived. To this day he still held a touch of resentment for the way she spoke down to him, and he knew she felt frustrated by his simple mind and his inability to rule properly.

"My Lord, you should perhaps consider selling the ships you received from Lord Hightower for your wedding, the income they would give would be a trem…"

Erik refocused his glare, "Absolutely not. This island and our forces is all that stands between Westeros and invasion from the Free Cities."

The young maester shifted, "Such an attack is unlikely to ever occur…"

"Forgive me if I am incorrect," a new voice said from the door of the small study the two had been cooped up in, "But not thirty years has passed since the last time Essos did exactly that."

Lynesse stood in the doorway, as beautiful as the day he had first met her, despite the fact she had birthed twins only a few days ago.

"My Lady, you should not be walking around so soon," Maester Pylos started, "Certainly I must advise against you taking part in the affairs of men, particularly so soon after-"

"Pylos…" Erik began darkly, "You're a smart man. I don't mind that you and I disagree, I believe it to be healthy. But if you ever dare to think to tell my wife where she should, and should not be, I will feed you to sharks swimming in the bay. Piece, by fleshy piece."

The smaller man shrank back from the giant of a human being, his warrior build overbearing in the small room.

"Now go, I believe we're done for the day."

Pylos quickly shuffled from the room, ready to be gone from the burning gaze of his lord, only pausing to apologize to the lady.

"He left his ledgers behind," Erik's wife commented as she took the maester's place in the stuffy study. Her gait was still quite stiff, but she didn't seem to be in pain, that didn't stop him from helping her to her seat, "I think he might have thought you were serious."

After ensuring she was seated, the man fell back into his chair, bringing a large, calloused hand to massage his temples. Those stupid ledgers, Pylos and Lynesse both insisted they were the key to running both a castle and a kingdom. Unfortunately for both, he barely knew how to read them, let alone perform the math required.

"Perhaps you were," the fair haired beauty remarked after regarding her husband for a few minutes, "What is the matter? Most fathers are generally happy after the birth of twins."

Erik looked up at his wife and sat back in his hard wooden chair, "Alerie and Farkas bring me all the happiness in the world. They remind me of Vera when she was a babe. And Baelor and Rayya are both more than I ever could have hoped for. My problems do not stem from our children, I assure you."

Lynesse frowned, "Then perhaps I have not been satisfactory. Is four children in three years not enough for you?"

"You are as perfect as the day we married. We could have no children, and I would feel the same for you as I do now. You, my beautiful, intelligent, and absolutely wonderful wife, could never be the source of any problem for me."

Lady Stormcrown sighed, her face softened, and she leaned forward to put a hand on his knee, "What plagues you? You have just admitted to having everything you want, yet here you sit, looking as though you are the most miserable man in all of Westeros."

Erik growled in frustration, could she not see?

"Because I don't deserve it! I haven't, and I can't earn this!"

Silence reigned in the small study. Neither occupant made a sound as Lynesse just stared at the large man in shock. Finally, the former Hightower shook her head and asked, "What in the seven hells are you talking about?"

The Dragonborn grabbed the ledgers and threw them into the wall, the leather clad iron bindings shattered and the paper went flying, "I CAN'T DO IT! I can't… I can't run a castle much less a kingdom! I have no idea how any of it works, I can't make ends meet. You are my wife, solely because of the fact I was given Dragonstone and all of the Narrow Sea to rule and protect, and I. CAN'T. DO. IT."

Lynesse recoiled from him, for the first time since very early in their marriage, Erik could feel her fear. She was terrified of him in that moment, and it made his heart sink past his feet. What sort of monster was he?

That was when a different look overcame his wife, "It's simple! Utilize your resources to bring in gold, spend gold on increasing your ability to exploit your resources and providing what you can't provide yourself. If you want, I can walk through our ledgers with you-"

She still didn't get it!

"It won't matter!" he growled, powerful hands were near splintering the ash arms of the chair, "I can't make sense of it. I know it's simple… for you. For Pylos… Divines take me, it's probably simple for Baelor and he's a toddler. But it's not simple for me! It doesn't make any sense! The numbers don't make any sense and I don't understand how trade is supposed to work on this sort of scale…"

Erik stood, pulled the chair off the ground and crushed the hard wood between his powerful arms, "I'm too FUCKING stupid!"

His tirade was set to continue until a small hand struck his cheek.

Erik blinked. The other hand came around and hit him from the other side. Then, both hands grabbed him by the collar and pulled. In his shocked state, all the man could do was follow, and be rewarded by a pair of warm and plush lips.

This was a very confusing chain of events.

His wife let go of him and looked him in the eye as she held him at her level, "Are you done?"

Lord Stormcrown nodded dumbly.

"Good," Lynesse guided him around and set him down on the seat she had previously occupied before stiffly climbing onto his lap, grabbing him by the hair, and forcing him to meet her gaze, "You're not stupid."

Erik said nothing.

"Uneducated maybe," she continued, tracing a finger along his broad chest, "but not stupid. I don't ever want to hear you speak like that ever again."

Her fingers tightened and her hand jerked his hair back, "And I certainly never want to see you acting like that brute I just saw a few seconds ago. That's the man I thought I was going to marry three years ago, not the one whom I've come to… well whom I've come to love. This man is kind and gentle with me, and protecting and loving to his children. This man also listens…" she emphasized the last word with a little tug of his hair, "to his wife, and to his maester, when they advise him."

Finally the hand let go of his hair and wrapped around his shoulder to rest on top of his chest, "My love, you do not need to know everything when it comes to ruling," she dropped her head to nestle into the crook of his neck, "That's what the rest of us are here for."

Erik, for his part, was still just staring at where her eyes had just been. He was still processing everything that had just happened, but one thing had certainly stuck in his mind.

"You said you love me…"

Lynesse shifted against him before issuing a quiet response, "I've been meaning to say it for a while, but things have been… tense."

The warrior slumped back, "They didn't need to be… I've been a fool. I was so focused on earning you, that I never took the time to appreciate you. I love you, _di kiim._ "

Sky blue eyes looked up inquisitively, and Erik chuckled, "Another time, perhaps. I need to clean up my mess…"

The most beautiful woman in the world dropped a hand down his shirt, "Later… now however…"

Lord Stormcrown's brow furrowed, "Already? But you just…"

"From what Lady Seaworth has told me, there's more than one way to relieve stress in a man…"

Erik watched her as she slipped from his lap and onto her knees, slipping his trousers past his waist as she did so. His head rocked back as her head lowered. He was right about one thing, he did not deserve this woman…

…

Rhaenys was abuzz with excitement, a week stuck on a stinky old boat, and she was finally able to see Dragonstone in the distance, the mountain peak stretching high into the sky, and the towers and fortifications of the castle itself jutting from the side. A small township extended out from the castle, and from the town spread an impressive array of docks, with many ships moored to them.

Some of the vessels were older and beat up, with ratty sails and rough hulls, while others were newer, and huge, with pretty woodworking on the hulls, and absolutely gorgeous sails, black canvas with a gleaming white dragon in the middle. There were even smaller ships milling about, some looked like fishing ships, others looked like what the maester back in Sunspear called an Ironborn longship.

"Lord Stormcrown is looking to expand," Uncle Oberyn's voice came from behind her, "Any more galley's and he'll have the number to match all the Houses of the Stormlands himself."

"Well King Robert did put him in charge of building the Royal Fleet," Mother replied as she leaned against the railing next to Rhaenys, "and then never followed through with supplying the funds. Lord Stormcrown has been forced to… improvise."

Uncle Oberyn snorted, "Improvise he has. I recognize more than a few of these ships from my time in the Free Cities. Pirate ships… He can't buy them, and doesn't have the lumber to build them, so he hunts them down and takes them. A good strategy, he can even take the loot to pay for upgrading the ships he steals."

The two adults continued their conversation, but Rhaenys was bored of it. She was going to see her best friend! Except for maybe Arianne, but that was only because she and Arianne got to spend all the time together. Erik was the best, but Rhaenys hardly ever got to spend time with him! She hoped it would change on this trip. Maybe they'd get to spend some time in the forge, even make something together! She could bring Arianne along, and show her how amazing it was to build something out of steel.

Speaking of her favorite cousin, Arianne had just emerged from below deck, apparently she didn't enjoy the rocking of the sea, and had spent most of the voyage sick. Rhaenys didn't mind, the rocking was fun, and made her feel like what Erik had called an 'old salty dog', or whatever kind of dog was salty anyway.

It reminded her of the story he had told her about the brothers Farkas and Vilkas, and the time they had disguised themselves as pirates to find the cove the criminals had been launching out of, and take them down. She wished she could meet heroes like that, she wished she could _be_ a hero like that. To save the people from terrible threats, enjoy the company of great friends, and live without fear.

Instead, every night she relived the moments before she met Erik. That great monster as it smashed her little brother's head against the wall. The ugly man as he roughly dragged her from underneath the crib, and her mother's screams of grief and fear. But the dreams always ended the same. The great black dragon would swoop in, delivering swift justice to both monsters in a flurry of righteous fury. It gave her hope, let her believe that heroes were real, and gave her the itch. The itch to make things better, to help people, to do something about the suffering she sees. It's the reason she doesn't like going to the Water Garden, the place was a fantasy, it was fake, it wasn't real.

But Sunspear was real, and so was Dragonstone, and the latter was approaching fast.

"It's so gray here," Arianne complained when she finally reached the railing next to Rhaenys, "And everything smells like fish."

"That's because that's what people eat here," the daughter of Elia Martell said matter of factly, "Seven tenths of all of Dragonstone's trade comes from fish and other sea food."

Her cousin scoffed, "Why would you want to go to a place that smells like fish? All year long, all you've talked about is going to Dragonstone, about how much fun it would be, about how amazing it is. All it does is smell."

Rhaenys was a little hurt by her words, but continued to defend the island, "All Dorne does is be hot! The place isn't what matters, it's people!"

"Fishermen?"

"Erik!"

Arianne crossed her arms, "I bet he's not even as big as you say!"

Mother laughed at that, interrupting the squabbling pair of seven year olds, "Well, he's standing on the dock waiting for us, so perhaps you should judge for yourself."

Both girls whipped around to the rapidly approaching dock, and despite Arianne's unfamiliarity with the man, he was easily identifiable. Taller than anyone else on the docks, or that either girl knew, and broader than two men standing shoulder to shoulder, he cut an imposing figure on the pier, particularly in his typical all black attire. Come to think of it, the only time Rhaenys had ever seen Erik wear something other than black was during her last stay on Dragonstone, when his wife, the ever beautiful Lynesse, had decided to try her hand at fashion. Unfortunately for them both, black and white were the only colors that didn't clash with his complexion.

"Oh," the Martell heir said lamely.

…

Elia Martel smiled as she watched her daughter and her niece play cyvasse with the Lords Stormcrown. The combined intellect of the two seven year olds was no match for the extensive experience of the veteran warrior, but considering they were facing a pair of Stormcrowns, and the one getting to make all the decisions was barely able to form coherent sentences, the match was dead even.

Little Baelor Stormcrown was a large child, at least larger than most children his age, but was still comically small as he sat on his father's lap, pointing at pieces for the big man to move. The boy had gorgeous golden hair, and large blue eyes, truly he took little from his father, except for perhaps size.

The two olive skinned little girls were discussing their next move, before her daughter grabbed the heavy horse three spaces, pinning the Stormcrowns' heavy infantry between the heavy horse and the elephant.

"Uh oh, Baelor," Erik rumbled in his son's ear, "They've got our horsey pinned. What should we do?"

"Dragon!" the boy shouted out, pointing at the red dragon piece.

The Lord of Dragonstone huffed in amusement, "Are you sure? Maybe we should move our archers over here? That way, when they move against our horsey, we can take out whichever piece they use."

"Oh no!" Arianne whispered as she saw what Erik was talking about, "I told you we should have used our light cavalry!"

"Light cavalry would have been taken out by their heavy infantry! Then they wouldn't need the archer!" Rhaenys argued back, meanwhile, Baelor was still pointing at the dragon excitedly.

"Alright, fine! Where do you want to move the dragon?" Erik asked his son, knowing full well that they had essentially just lost the match.

Sure enough, twelve turns later the girls moved in on the boys' capital and took it with overwhelming force, Baelor still smiling and pointing at random pieces excitedly, clearly the child did not have a clear concept of the game, but all that really mattered was that he was having fun.

"I think that's enough abuse for one day, why don't you two run along," Erik said as he lifted his still very excited son from his lap and set him down, "And you little man, should go find the Maester, I believe its time for your lessons."

"Okay, papa," the boy said, his excitement plummeting to a somber mood, and just a hint of trepidation. Baelor took a few steps towards the door the girls had just vanished through before turning back and racing over to his father and giving the giant man's legs a hug, "Thanks for helping me, I'm sorry we lost."

Elia's heart almost melted at the sight, particularly with the look on Erik's face as he looked down at his son, the man clearly filled with pride and love, "It's ok, my boy. Pay attention in your lessons, and we'll get those mean old girls next time."

The future Lord of Dragonstone looked up at his father with grim determination, or at least as much as a two and a half year old could, and gave a single nod before dashing out the doorway.

"You have a beautiful family," Elia told the man as soon as the door closed behind the child, "Baelor is a smart young boy, and will no doubt grow to be a great man, and Rayya is already gorgeous little girl."

The giant of a man looked back with a contented smile on his face, "Thank you, Elia, I never thought I'd even have a family. I'm grateful for them. Though I must say, Rhaenys is becoming quite the Lady of authority."

It was at this point Oberyn decided to join the conversation with a laugh, "The little dragon runs roughshod over most of her cousins. I think it's why she likes Arianne best, she's the only one who stands up to her."

Elia smiled at her little brother before turning back to Erik, "It's your fault. You keep telling her stories of your travels and keep mixing in helpful advice on how to handle leadership. Well she took those lessons to heart, and now she practically has all five of her cousins under her thumb, even the two older than her!"

"I keep telling Obara she doesn't have to listen to little Rhaenys, but the little dragon keeps dragging my eldest daughter back under her control," the Red Viper shook his head, "Keep an eye on her. She'll own your son before long, too."

Erik rolled his eyes, "I'll keep a look out, but in the meantime, I must ask, what you two are doing here? Elia I understand, she is Rhaenys' mother, but you?"

Oberyn shrugged casually, "I like traveling, Dragonstone is one place I've never been. Perhaps it is as simple as that?"

"Your reputation suggests that you are anything but simple."

"Ah!" her little brother exclaimed, "Proof positive that ugly people aren't necessarily stupid people."

"Brother!" Elia admonished. Erik was a friend and Oberyn thought he could just insult the man?

Erik pointed at the both of them, "Proof positive that the younger siblings are always the most annoying."

"Are you insulting our guests?"

Lynesse Stormcrown was glaring daggers at her husband as she entered the room, looking as beautiful as ever, and most certainly attracting Oberyn's ever wandering eye. Elia sent a quick glare to her little brother in one last attempt to tell him to behave himself, lest he have Erik rip his skull and spine out for a trophy.

"I'm afraid my little brother started it," Elia said calmly, refusing to acknowledge Oberyn's insulted look, "As to why he's here, well, he's here to test the product."

"Product?" Lynesse asked, "I'm afraid all we have at the moment is fish."

"No…" Erik corrected slowly as he looked the former Targaryen princess in the eyes, "We have a fleet of warships…"

"And the Stepstones is in the midst of a very serious plague of pirates," the princess added, "None of our trade ships have gotten through to the Free Cities. We need that trade to stay economically independent of the rest of Westeros, but we don't have the fleet, nor the means to build a fleet to escort our merchant ships."

"So you want to buy ours?"

"We don't have the men to fill those ships," Oberyn answered, "We want to hire your vessels to escort our merchant ships."

"You just told us that you don't have the gold to spend on a fleet," Lady Stormcrown stepped in, "How are you going to pay us for the escort?"

"We are ready to offer a reasonably fair percentage of each successful cargo haul," Elia began, "Three percent."

"You must think us all fools down in Dorne," Lynesse replied, both women getting into the bartering process, "My twins may have been born last week, but I was not, twenty percent."

"I certainly think you a fool now. Seven percent."

"Fifteen percent."

"Ten."

Lynesse narrowed her eyes as she folded her arms beneath her swollen breasts, "Fifteen percent on loads with value greater than ten thousand gold dragons, and ten percent on loads with a smaller value."

Elia reached for the pitcher and poured a goblet of wine. A standard delaying tactic, and the princess was sure the lady knew it, but she needed the time to think. The policy made sense. Greater hauls, greater risk to their ships, but the significant price difference would force more trips and smaller loads, and Dorne needed large scale trade now.

"Ten percent flat rate, but each crew and ship that is vetted by my brother here will receive an additional five hundred dragon bonus for each escort mission."

Dark Martel eyes and blue Hightower locked for a full minute before the blonde beauty finally opened her mouth, "Agreed."

Oberyn sat up, "What happened? Did you reach an agreement?"

Elia rolled her eyes, "Yes we did, there's more fine points that need to be hammered out, but suffice to say, Doran will get his trade, and Dorne will get its economy back on the right path."

The Red Viper leapt to his feet and walked over to the pitcher of wine, "Then I believe, it's time for a celebratory drink," the Arbor Gold, undoubtedly a favorite of the former scion of Hightower, quickly found its way into three more goblets even as Elia's was refilled, "Lord Erik, any words from your home to toast?"

The big man looked down in the decorative cup, perhaps still, even after three years, a little unused to such luxury as drinking wine from silver and gold. Then he looked up, raised his goblet high and said in a deep and somewhat unsettling tone, "Skol."

Erik drained the entire goblet in one gulp before slamming it back down on the table stand.

This was punctuated by a knock at the door, "My Lord, I have something you will want to see."

Both Stormcrowns obviously knew the owner of the voice, particularly as the lord turned to the door and said, "Come in, Ser Davos."

The door opened to reveal a smaller, well everyone was smaller once you got used to Erik's presence, and rough looking man. Not to say he was dangerous looking, he just looked like he had lived a hard life. Of course if what Elia knew about the man was true, life as a smuggler and a man amongst the poorest of King's Landing, he had likely lived a harder life than anyone in the castle.

Ser Seaworth seemed to hesitate at the sight of the Prince and Princess of Dorne, "Apologies, My Lords, My Ladies, I did not mean to disturb…"

"It's alright, Davos, what do need?" Lynesse said easily, surprising Elia with her lack of formality with the smuggler. That husband of hers was quite the influence on more than just Rhaenys.

"Well actually it's about the last ship we captured," the rough man said, still keeping his eyes low, clearly far from comfortable being in the same room as nobility, "We pulled something from it I think you should see. A book."

Oberyn snorted, but the former Targaryen Princess took immediate note of Erik's reaction to the mention of a book.

"A sprawling fantasy epic?" her little brother asked mockingly, "Or a collection of poems?"

The former smuggler seemed uneasy, and not from her brother's teasing, "It's not like any book I've ever seen. It's… warm, to the touch, like flesh, and it's not bound in leather-"

"But rather in some sort of yellow resin that seems to wriggle in the light," the Lord of Dragonstone finished for Ser Davos, "with cast iron bindings, and brass edgings that are carved with horrific images. And in the center, a closed eye, one that looks like it might open at any time."

Everyone looked at him in shock as Seaworth seemed to struggle for a moment, "Y-yes, My Lord. How…"

"Ser Davos," his voice was dangerously quiet, "Where is this book?"

The smuggler turned knight whistled sharply and two large men in sterling steel armor entered, carrying a chest with a large cast iron padlock on it. In one quick motion, Erik lifted the chest right out of the soldiers' hands and brought it over to the center of the room.

"I thought it best to keep it locked up, I didn't know what it was or if anyone might want it. I have the," Erik ripped the padlock right off the latch, "… key."

The top of the chest flew open, and the warrior wasted no time reaching down into the large oak and iron container and pulling the object of the room's interest.

It was horrific, terrifying, bile inducing, and that was before the eyelid in the middle snapped open.

 _ **THERE YOU ARE… DRAGONBORN… IT TOOK SOME TIME TO ARRANGE THIS…**_

The voice was low, and slimy on the ears, and seemed to perforate the very essence of reality. The eye was not much better, wide, wet, yellow whites and an hourglass pupil. Black tentacles began appearing at the edges of the bindings, leaking out from between the pages and waving in the air.

 _ **I HAVE… NEED OF YOU…**_

Erik slammed the book down on a table and stalked away from the book, "I'm no errand boy, Hermaeus Mora, and you've no shortage of hapless fools willing to do your bidding."

 _ **NONE… AS COMPETENT… AS YOU…**_

"I'm not your slave, Mora!" the man shouted back at the book, everyone else in the room far too paralyzed by what was happening to try and do anything.

 _ **YOU SERVE ME… AS ALL DO… IF NOT… YOU CAN BE… COERCED…**_

The padlock keeping the book closed popped off, and the pages flew open. Black tendrils flew out, a subtle shift by Erik saw the tendrils miss him, unfortunately he was but one of three targets.

Lynesse's screams were cut short as black tendrils wrapped around her face and upper body, and Oberyn's cries for help went unheeded as he was pulled violently from his spot and into the book. More tendrils erupted from the oily pages, headed straight for Elia…

The last thing she saw was moving script on translucent pages bending around her, becoming a part of reality, then… there was nothing.

 **Skol, friends! It means cheers. Or at least, now it does. It actually used to be a toast made by Viking warriors after they defeated an enemy of some notoriety. What they would do was they would cut off the top half of the person's head, clear out the brain and slop, then fill it with mead and toast their comrades, "SKOL!" for skull, and then drink. Considering that the large majority of the Nord culture seems to be based off of the ancient Vikings, I figured it was reasonably acceptable to include the word.**

 **But let's be real… that's not what's on your mind right now… is it? No… you're probably a little flustered about that ending, and probably a few of you are going to point out that that isn't what the Black Books actually look like. Oh well. I like my description better, and I felt that this was the most acceptable way to actually bring this story back to Skyrim, without making large leaps. Others up for consideration were dwemer ruins beneath Dragonstone, there was a lost ship from Tamriel that miraculously avoided landing anywhere else in the world…**

 **Short answer, I thought Hermaeus Mora looking for the Dragonborn through the introduction of a Black Book made the most sense.**

 **That's all I've really got for this story for now. Sorry it took so long. I got into some other stories, then I played Mass Effect Andromeda which was… as average as the rest of that series honestly. Then I was playing For Honor which… actually, is a really cool game, unfortunately everyone online is way better than me, and keeps destroying me. But it is also the reason I decided to get back into writing this story, so… ya know…**

 **Drop a review, and I am terribly, terribly, terribly sorry to all the people who message me and I have yet to respond. Particularly you, Angry lil Elf. You are so patient. I thank you for it.**

 **Remember to review, don't want to write, what you don't want to read.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Yes, yes, you're all mad about the last chapter. If you really have a bad beef with it, PM me. I'll try and answer your questions.**

Thunder rolled across the oily black clouds… lightning flashed sickly yellow across the ruined hellscape of whichever of the seven hells this happened to be. Towers of slimy stone, and bulbous structures made by sickening plants, and Lynesse was being drug through this hell by monsters that made her want to scream and vomit all at the same time.

The creatures didn't have legs, instead choosing to somehow float above the ground with wisps of cloth or perhaps they were what was left of their skin, she did not know. Strong and grotesque arms held onto her, as well as Elia and Oberyn Martel, and easily held her aloft, with seemingly no strain to itself. Its head looked like a cuttlefish that had swallowed what was supposed to be there for a head, and was now in control of the creature.

Both Elia and Lynesse were slack in the powerful grip of the creature, but Oberyn continued to struggle, to no avail of course. The creature didn't seem bothered in the slightest by the Prince's continued struggles. At one point the Red Viper had pulled a dagger out from… wherever he hid them, and hilted it inside the creature's chest. It didn't even twitch.

What were these things? Were they demons, devils, grumkins, snarks, the Others themselves? And what was that… voice. The thing that snatched them… where were they? Were they in the book? Were they in one of the seven hells? Its voice, its power, its evil. And it _knew_ Erik. Knew him personally, and Erik knew it back… Three years of marriage… Who even was her husband?

 _ **STILL YOUR THOUGHTS… LADY OF DRAGONSTONE… WONDERING IS NOT… NECESSARY HERE… ALL WILL BE… REVEALED… WHEN HE… COMES FOR YOU…**_

Could it…

 _ **YES… I CAN… AND I SEE… YOURS OBERYN… MARTEL… YOUR POISONS WILL… NOT WORK ON ME…**_

The blonde woman struggled in her captor's grip to try and get a look at the Red Viper. The creature carrying him sported a few more daggers sticking out of its chest, and seemed as unperturbed as ever. The Prince was still struggling, it seemed giving up was something the famed warrior simply could not abide.

 _ **YOU WILL NOT… BE HARMED… YOU ARE MERELY… INCENTIVE… MY CHAMPION IS… STUBBORN… HE MUST BE… PERSUADED…**_

It seems they've reached their destination, when they were dumped unceremoniously at the top of a large tower. Easily the tallest in sight. There were signs of a fight, deeply etched into the sickening rock. Melted stone reminiscent of the stories of Harrenhall, deep scars shaped by some creatures massive claws and… and… Dragon bones.

Entire skeletons, strewn about. Dropped where they had been slain. One showed shattered ribs, another had a severed jaw. Something had killed all of these dragons… what if that something was still here? Such a powerful creature could surely annihilate them with a single fell swing!

 _ **FEAR NOT… HE IS ON HIS WAY…**_

Thunder rolled, and the tower shook, but no lightning corresponded to the blast. A man's voice was audible on the wind, two words, not in any language she knew, but one she was familiar with, and a boom that shook the very air around them.

The sound of metal striking metal filled the air. There was a fierce battle taking place, somewhere below them, further down the tower.

 _ **FIERCE… BUT ONE SIDED… HE HAS NOT… LOST A STEP…**_

"Who?" Oberyn asked angrily… struggling still against his captor's decrepit arms, "Who are you talking about!?"

The terrible screeches of dying monsters echoed through the tower, drawing ever nearer. Meaning that whatever was killing them was also drawing nearer.

More of that language, strangely familiar, this time accompanied by plume of flames that filled one of the nearby spires, the tall gangly fish creatures and the ghostly and ragged form of Lynesse's captor writhed in the flames, turning to ash in seconds. One monster remained, a large man like figure, in blue, almost ice like armor remained, having hidden from the devouring flames. He was too far to make out the exact words, but his war cry could certainly be heard over the distant thunder.

The man's cries were in vain as a massive, and very familiar figure strode into view. Decked out in his signature black armor, shield at the front, and Wuuthrad swinging in a lazy circle, Lynesse wasn't sure if her husband was a welcome sight, or a rotten bastard.

Erik dispatched the man in blue with ease as he strode toward a podium mounted in the center of the platform, and promptly opened the giant book placed there. He did turn to look up, presumably at them, and the Lady of Dragonstone could have sworn their eyes met, even over the distance.

He turned back to the book… and was gone…

 _THUNK!_

The grip the foul creature had on her slackened and Lynesse fell to the oily stone, her captor falling next to her, the top half of its tentacled head missing. The blonde woman rolled over just in time to see the imposing form of her husband send Wuuthrad flying horizontally, the oversized head burying itself in the chest of the creature that had held Elia hostage, freeing the Dornish princess.

The sound of ringing steel could be heard as Storm's Wrath slipped from its scabbard. Oberyn was freed as Erik cut one wrinkled arm off, and had his honor avenged as thirty two inches of Valyrian steel buried itself in the creature's chest, dropping the foul being and leaving the four alone at the summit of this evil place.

The sword slithered back into its leather holster as the giant of a man continued to stare down at his latest victim. Uncertainty sloped his shoulders, shame kept his head low, and guilt stayed his tongue for a moment.

Finally he turned his head, "Are you alright?"

She hated that helmet, it made his voice ugly, and menacing.

"Oh I'm wonderful!" the Red Viper spat sarcastically, "Though a bit parched, do you have any wine here in the seven hells?"

The spiked helmet dipped a bit lower, shame bearing down on him even more, "I meant, is anyone hurt?"

Lynesse felt a tear flow down her cheek as her throat thickened and she managed to choke out a quiet, 'no'.

The situation had caught up to her. Until now it had been a whirlwind. A quick and decisive series of events, going by so fast she would be surprised if even only one hour had gone by. The world as she knew it had been shattered, replaced with an ugly horizon, an evil voice from the heavens, and foul creatures wandering the vast and endless expanse.

A gauntleted hand caressed her arm, helping to gently raise her to her feet. Erik removed his helmet, letting the blonde woman to see his warm chocolate eyes as he did his best to comfort her, "We'll be alright, everything is going to be fine."

 _ **THAT… DEPENDS ON YOU… DRAGONBORN…**_

Warm eyes turned cold and hard as stone at the sound of that evil voice. Lazy in its cadence, and corrupted in its tone.

The air behind Erik split open, and Lynesse, too choked up to scream, only managed to shake in fear as tentacles pulled the very fabric of reality apart, so that a singular eye, with that same hourglass pupil from the book, could emerge.

"What is it you want, Mora?" her husband spat as he turned to regard the demon.

 _ **YOU HAVE GROWN… COMPLACENT… MIRAAK STILL ROAMS FREE… HIS INFLUENCE… INFECTS SKYRIM…**_

The huge man tilted his head, "He's in Skyrim? Not Solstheim?"

 _ **HE IS IN THE OTHER WORLD… THE ONE… I PULLED YOU FROM… BUT HIS INFLUENCE… IS SPREADING… HE GATHERS AN ARMY…**_

The eye seemed to shudder as it's grotesque lid shut and opened in a lazy blink.

 _ **MALACATH… IS HIS ALLY… IN THIS ENDEAVOR… YOU WILL STEM THE TIDE…**_

Erik looked down, then looked back to Lynesse, worry etched on his heavy brow. The warrior looked to the two Dornish nobility who had been watching in silence, as shocked as the former Hightower at the events of the past hour.

"What of my wife?" he asked, clearly conceding to the demon's wishes, "what of my friends?"

 _ **TAKE THEM… THEY WILL PLAY… THEIR PART…**_

"So that's it then? I just, do your bidding as always?"

 _ **I TOLD YOU… A LONG TIME AGO… FREE WILL… IS AN ILLUSION…**_

Suddenly, and without warning, her husband sent a wad of spit directly into the demon's eye.

"I don't believe that, and neither do you, or else you wouldn't need me to do your work," a smile suddenly graced his face, "You wouldn't have needed me to fight Miraak, nor would you have needed Miraak in the first place. The Skaal call you the Demon of Knowledge, you should be known as the Demon of Bluster. I will do your work, I will head off Miraak's influence, and you will send me, and my party, back to Dragonstone, but you will never call upon me again."

The malevolent entity chuckled at the mortal's surprising show of confidence before it answered, arrogance clinging to every slow and painful word.

 _ **AND WHY... WILL I NOT…**_

"There are other Daedra," Erik spat, "Think of what they could do with a loyal servant like me?"

The demon fell silent. The lazy blinking ceased, and the incessantly flailing tentacles stilled. The hourglass pupil narrowed as it focused on the large man in front of him. A terrible snarl filled the world around them as the eye slipped back into the essence of reality, tentacles following behind. The ground shook, and the area in the center of the spire lifted up, revealing an arbor, with another massive book mounted in the center.

The giant of a man let out a sigh. Something weighed heavily on her husband, and perhaps if she wasn't in what was certainly one of the Seven Hells, or if she wasn't upset with him, Lynesse likely would have tried to help him.

"Let's go," Erik said lowly as he walked up to the book and flipped it open, "Place your hand on the pages. I should warn you, the world beyond will likely be just as harsh as this one."

"Is it another of the Hells?" Elia asked quietly as her brother helped her to her feet and nearer the arbor.

The Lord of Dragonstone shook his head, "No, it is my homeland, the crucible in which men such as I are forged. There will be no lurkers, or seekers, or a malevolent demon in charge, instead there will be hungry wildlife, vicious bandits, and dragons roaming the sky. Now put your hand on the page, and let us be gone from this miserable place… and into the next one."

Both Martells placed their hands on the open book and promptly vanished in a burst of light, leaving only husband and wife standing at the arbor, similar in structure, if not style nor function, to the one where they had said their vows in King's Landing.

The man could barely meet her eyes, looking away from the piercing blue every time they made contact, "You, uh… you're…" he sighed and rubbed his eyes, "You are next."

She stared for a second before asking, "Who are you?"

He blinked, "I'm your husband…"

"Are you? My husband doesn't consort with demons."

Lynesse angrily slapped her hand against the open book and suddenly felt the very essence of reality warp around her. And then found that it was very cold.

…

Three southerners huddled together next to the small fire, hoping to stay warm in their icy surroundings. Erik had built them a shelter out of ice, as though that were supposed to keep them warmer, and had even started a fire, but he wasn't in the shelter, he was sat outside. Lynesse wasn't sure if it was because he had picked up on the tension between himself and his companions, or if he simply needed some time alone. Either way, the former Hightower was both glad for the separation, and wishing he was there, providing his warmth and his comfort.

"I've never know such cold," Oberyn broke the silence, holding his bare fingers towards the orange flame, his hands visibly shaking as a frigid wetness coated his bronze skin.

Elia shuddered and huddled the two people on either side of her a little closer, "Did you see the horizon? There was nothing but ice, as far as I could see!"

Lynesse leaned into the Dornish Princess a little further, her teeth chattering, "Erik once told me that there was an expanse in northern Skyrim that was all one giant glacier. It's possible that's where we are…"

"You are correct," the man himself said as he rolled through the entrance of what he had called an igloo. His armor was stripped off of him and in the corner of the small shelter, leathers he wore underneath were all that kept him from the cold, "I was just looking at the stars, we're about a day's march from Winterhold. There's an inn there, warm food, soft beds. Better than this anyway. Besides… I need to go to the College there, figure out where this army Old Mora want's destroyed is."

"What was it?" Elia asked, a chatter to her voice that Lynesse could have sworn was growing weaker, "That thing you call Mora…"

Erik stretched out on his side of the fire, clearly unbothered by the unfathomable cold that gripped the air around them, "A demon. Specifically a Daedric Prince, godlike beings as old as the universe itself… At least that's the case with Hermaeus Mora. Some are younger, but he's been around for… I don't know how long. A long time."

Oberyn shook his head incredulously, "There are others?"

"Many, more than most are just as vile, only a few could be considered rivals."

"And this Malacath?"

"Another Daedric Prince, a younger one, not nearly as powerful. I doubt he'd be openly acting against Mora on his own…"

"Who's Miraak?"

At the sound of his wife's voice, Erik tensed, though it wasn't the fact Lynesse was speaking to him, but rather what she had said. The large man was an open book to her, an advantage that irked him and delighted her to no end, and provided a useful insight into his thoughts. Whomever Miraak was, Erik hated him. Passionately.

"Who is he, Erik?"

Those lovely eyes of his burned, he didn't want to answer, and she was prepared to force him, but the man was saved by the sudden wet hacking that wracked Elia Martell's body…

…

"You need to keep up," Erik shouted over his shoulder, Elia's very sickly body held in his arms, "I know it's difficult, but I can't leave you behind… and she doesn't have much longer."

Lynesse's lungs burned in the icy air, her feet were numb from the cold, and her fingers were beginning to blacken as she and Oberyn did their absolute best to keep up with the huge man leading them. Middle of summer he said! The snow atop this glacier had to be three feet deep, and the much shorter pair had more difficulty moving through it than he. Her hair did not shift with her movement, having long frozen solid, snot had ceased to flow from her nose, and if her ears looked anything like Oberyn's it was likely she would be scarred for life.

"We're only a few miles from Winterhold," he encouraged, his long legs carrying him through the drifts with ease, "It's just over that gap between the two mountains!"

"Erik!" Oberyn rasped, the Dornish man suffering from the cold even worse than Lynesse. Fortunately the weight from her recent pregnancy had more than one us, "You have to go! Save my sister!"

"I can't leave you here, now move!"

The Red Viper tried to heed the warrior's call, but fell in the snow. His legs had failed him, the cold sapped the strength from his body, and now sought to take his life. Lynesse dropped to her knees next to him, turning him over and seeing that he was lost to the waking world, his breath shallow, and his normally bronzed skin turned ashen white.

"Erik…" she choked out through her frozen throat, "You must go…"

Darkness was creeping in on the corners of her vision, strangely, there was no pain, in fact… it was terribly comfortable. Lynesse didn't even have the will to complain as she felt herself unceremoniously flung over a hard and ridged shoulder paldron.

Dimly, she was aware of something similar befalling Oberyn on the other shoulder. Her consciousness refused to give up, despite the ever welcoming call of sleep. She remained awake, watching the trench Erik created in the snow pass by, feeling the stumbling gait of the man carrying three adults through over three feet of snow piled on top of a couple hundred feet of ice, she could hear his breathe grow more hoarse with each step.

They had traveled more than ten miles through the thick snow, the large man blazing the trail and carrying Elia all the way, now he had to carry three times the weight, all of his armor, and his weapons. If Lynesse had been more aware of her thoughts, she might have been concerned for the man that she loved.

His stride was becoming more unstable, and his pace was picking up speed. The dying woman didn't even have the strength to call out as Erik stumbled hard and she hit her head on his armor plated back. The darkness that had been threatening to invade for the past… hour? Two? Didn't matter now… Lynesse closed her eyes, perhaps to never open them again.

…

So… warm. And dry. Odd, she didn't seem to be wearing any clothes, though there was a heavy covering draped over her. For the first time since arriving in this Seven forsaken land, Lynesse could feel every finger, toe, and expanse of skin. She could even think properly for the first time since the fiend from the book had decided to ruin what had otherwise been a good day.

Unfortunately such a gift turned to be a burden as that line of thinking immediately led to her husband. It was his fault she was here, in this cursed land of snow, ice, and bone cutting cold. It was his fault she had been taken by that horrid demon, and it was his fault she had nearly died!

He had also saved her life, but it should never have been in jeopardy to begin with! That stupid book the peasant-turned-knight Davos Seaworth had found couldn't wait? Sure it was host to an incredibly powerful creature and to let it leave his sight was foolish, but he couldn't have sent them out? Perhaps he just didn't want to be seen as keeping secrets, maybe he just wanted to be open with them. It was even possible he had no idea the book was capable of what it did.

Still with closed eyes, the Lady Stormcrown furrowed her brow and let a low growl escape her lips. She couldn't stay mad. The man only ever tried to do the right thing, and if he was ever wrong, he worked and worried until he righted his transgressions. He was a massive brute, a man who took lives with ease, and terrified all who saw him in his armor, by all rights he should have been the focus of all her fears.

A noise caught her attention, a deep rumbling that would build to a crescendo, then settle into a light wheeze. Opening her eyes for the first time, she found a room cast in the glow of the massive hearth in center of the room. The walls were stone, decorated with large tapestries and unlit torch sconces. The stone work was magnificent, above the quality of even the Red Keep, and would have merited more of Lynesse's attention, if it weren't for another deep rumble and a light wheeze.

Sky blue eyes snapped down to her right, towards the hearth, though she couldn't see any of it, for the giant form of her husband was slumped against her bed, his head propped up on his arms and resting next to her shoulder.

As she watched him slumber she couldn't help but smile lightly. The man was still homely, but the sweetest person she had ever met. It was no wonder Baelor was such a wonderful boy…

Now that thought was a gut punch…

…

"Where are we?" Oberyn asked angrily as he stalked back and forth, clearly whatever they had for healers here in Skyrim was far beyond any Maester's ability. The Red Viper's skin was back to his healthy bronze, his finger's no longer as black as the shore of Dragonstone, and his legs now, obviously, fully under his own control, "And where is my sister?!"

Erik was hunched over a table, book in hand, "The College of Winterhold. Your sister is in the Wing of Restoration I imagine."

"Then I will find her!" the Dornish man exclaimed.

"This place is a maze, and there are things out there you aren't ready to face alone."

Oberyn ripped the book from her husband's hands, ripping several pages in the process, "Why do you just sit here!? My sister is lying nearby! Stricken ill! She could die! And you're what? Reading?!"

Erik, for his part, just looked at the ruined book before replying, "She's still alive, and likely doing well, we would have been told otherwise. No news, is good news, in this case."

"And I'm just supposed to accept that?!"

"Prince Martell," Lynesse spoke up suddenly, with more force than clearly was expected of her as both men looked over to her sharply, "My husband knows these people, this was his home."

The big man smiled lightly, "Yes he might be the idiot who stranded us here in the first place," the smile fell, "but he is also our best hope for getting back."

The Lady Stormcrown refused to meet her lord husband's eyes. Yes she had forgiven him, but there was no reason to let him think he was. Wouldn't want him to think that he could so easily win back her favor, she was going to make him work for it.

"Besides," she continued, "the sun just rose less than an hour ago, someone should be along to see us…"

The sound of a door swinging open caused a blonde eyebrow to arch, "Now… it would seem."

A hooded figure entered, a man by the width of the shoulders. The lighting must have been casting odd shadows, because Lynesse could have sworn the man had fur instead of skin, and his eyes were huge, much larger than any human's should have been.

"Erik…" the man purred, literally, purred, "Missing for years only to show up unannounced? Couldn't even write your old friend J'zargo?"

Erik, for his part, stood stock still, for a second anyway.

"Fucking furball," the big man broke out into a smile, "If I thought for a second you could open a letter so much as read one I would have sent something!"

Her husband strode forward and quickly embraced the smaller man, "You've been doing well for yourself! Those are the robes of the Archmage?"

J'zargo… smiled? This was no trick of the light, the man had fangs!

"J'zargo did not squander the opportunity you gave him those years ago, but first, let us speak of your friends?" the 'Archmage' replied, gesturing to Oberyn and Lynesse, "They do not have the look of your usual company."

Erik's smile faltered a bit, he was uncertain. Lady Stormcrown could read her husband like an open book, an advantage she pressed much to his chagrin. In this case, however, it simply confused her even more. Why would he be uncertain about introducing a friend?

Then J'zargo dropped his hood.

"What in the seven hells is that?!" Oberyn exclaimed, jumping behind the table in an effort to keep a barrier between him and this… cat person?

"Your friends are rude, Erik. Have they not seen Khajiit before?"

Khajiit? Erik had told her stories, but they were just that. Or not, as the brown mottled tabby cat standing at about six foot tall in front of her suggested.

"No they have not," the warrior said, then he leaned in close to the feline, "They're uh… not from around here."

J'zargo looked back and forth between Lynesse's astonished face, and Oberyn's fearful and angry one, "Clearly not. J'zargo should have guessed from the state you brought them in. Not dressed for the weather at all, the Redguard girl barely survived."

"My sister? Elia?" the Dornish man was still maintaining his distance from the cat person, but was clearly more interested in what it had to say than what it looked like now, "Where is she?"

"She is well. J'zargo hears she is already awake and asking to see you three. J'zargo came here to take you to her. And to see his old friend."

Erik threw his arm around the upright cat, "Friend? You should be so lucky. Did you ever learn that expert level spell?"

"Pfft!" the feline scoffed, then held out one hand, a ball of fire just appearing in the palm, "J'zargo is Archmage. He has forgotten novice spells."

The surprises kept rolling, and she was finding out more and more, that maybe her husband's wild tales, weren't so wild.

…

"This place has grown a lot since I was last here," Erik said, "Used to just be the courtyard, the Hall of Elements, the Arcaneum. But now you've got a hall dedicated to each school… How is the College paying for this?"

J'zargo, for his part, chuckled as he led them through the frigid, though bearable in the warm winter robes gifted to the two southerners, air and past the throngs of students, each more bizarre than the last. A few of them had yellow skin, and were as tall as Lynesse's giant of a husband! Some had red eyes and ashen grey skin, there was even one with white hair, green skin and tusks!

"The last Archmage, you remember him?"

"Savos Aren?"

"Correct," the cat said as he made a dismissive gesture to an older gentleman who had looked like he wished to speak with the feline, "His policy was one of passivism. He preferred to watch the going's on of Skyrim. J'zargo knew that this would kill the College though. He remembered his larger than life friend, who stuck his nose in people's business whether they wanted it there or not."

Suddenly, the four passed through an archway onto an uncovered bridge that stretched over…

"By the Maiden…" Lynesse whispered as she looked over the bridge, "It's beautiful…"

It really was. To the south, a glacier jutted out over the sea. A pure white she had never seen before, not even in the finest of silks, or cleanest of stone. It was majestic, wonderful, and gorgeous. There were dots on the glacier, perhaps structures in the distance, or maybe she had misjudged the distance, and they were packs of animals or groups of people. Whatever they were, they were too far to distinguish any exact identity.

To the north, icebergs rose from placid waters so clear, Lynesse could see the rest of the ice extending down into the depths of the ocean. Shapes swam through the waters and hauled themselves onto the plates of ice at the surface. The sea extended beyond eyesight, great peaks of ice jutting from the fields of white and blue getting smaller and smaller in the distance.

"The Sea of Ice," Erik said, having stopped with his wife, bringing J'zargo and Oberyn to a halt as well, "Legend claims there is a land beyond it, to the north. Atmora. It's where the Nords originally came from."

"More than rumors, friend," the Archmage said as he too stepped up to the railing, "Once a month a longship makes the journey here, trading exotic furs, meats, and ores not found in Tamriel. No vessel of ours has found their land, and they won't escort anyone through the ice. But they keep coming."

"Where do they land? Dawnstar?"

The cat openly laughed, "Winterhold. J'zargo has been appreciative of the town's accommodating the College, he has shown this appreciation with gold and assistance in the Jarl's aggressive expansion. A small port now exists, trading only with Dawnstar and the aforementioned Atmoran longship, but the town itself is much larger than it was before."

Erik shook his head in shock before standing back and gesturing for J'zargo to lead on.

…

"Just pneumonia, complicated by hypothermia and a severely weakened immune system, but easy to fix," a shorter, bookish woman said in a clipped tone, then pointed at Erik, "He was harder to treat than her, and really shouldn't be walking around right now!"

"Collette, I'm fine."

"Partial tear on both hamstrings. Fluid in the lungs!" she pressed a finger into his chest, "You were seconds away from cardiac arrest! Most men would have died."

That lopsided grin that made Baelor beam and Rayya giggle was on full display as he leaned against a stone column, "Thank the Nine my name isn't Most, it's Erik!"

Lynesse couldn't help herself. More and more often he made those horrid jokes, and it was getting to the point where the sheer ridiculousness of the jokes would get to her. A peel of laughter escaped before she could clamp her mouth shut, but it was enough to get the bookish woman to focus on her.

"And you! You should not be traipsing around ice fields in your condition!"

The blonde woman blinked, "My condition?"

"You've only just given birth three weeks ago! And going into hypothermia like you had, let the infection in your womb grow!"

Her husband straightened, "Infection? What are you talking about?"

"This girl had an infection in her womb," the woman said, never letting up on her aggressive tone, "Would have eaten her alive if she wasn't treated, as it is I seriously doubt she'll be able to conceive again…"

"Are you saying I'm barren?" fear laced her voice and gripped her stomach. If she was barren, she had no future. Women, highborn women especially, had no place in the world if they couldn't rear children. Would Erik abandon her? Like so many other noblemen do with their barren wives? Annul the marriage and find a new woman while casting her out? Never to see her children again?

"Not entirely. But it would be very difficult," the woman turned to Erik, "It didn't have to be this way, if you hadn't dragged her through-"

"Collette that is enough!" J'zargo's voice was not the purr she had gotten used to. It was a snarl that was reminiscent of the panther's Lynesse had seen as a little girl for sale as exotic pets for the wealthy of Old Town.

"You are dismissed," the feline continued to snarl, "And J'zargo will be discussing proper behavior towards patients with you!"

Properly chastised, the woman stalked off, muttering under her breath, but Lynesse didn't hear it. She could only hear the sound of her life ending over and over. She'd have to go back to Old Town, live like an old maid in the upper floors of Hightower. Would her father even let her go down into the markets like she used to? Would her children ever visit? Would she be forced to watch them grow from afar?

Anxiety over the future, both hers and her childrens', wracked the Lady of Dragonstone until a large hand rested on her shoulder and pulled her in. Lynesse wrapped her arms around Erik, feeling him do the same. Tears would have blinded her, had the smooth furs Erik wore not already totally occupied her vision. Even through the thick winter clothing, the woman could feel her husband's warmth, then she could feel his chin rest on the top of her head. His hands rubbed up and down her back, and the words were soft, but audible.

"I'm so sorry… this is my fault. We should be at home, holding our new twins… playing with Baelor and Rayya. But I just had to make sure… I was so stupid! I needed to see the damned Book!"

His voice was cracking, on the verge of tears for the empathy he had for his wife, who was already shedding water.

…

"What do you think of all of this, Oberyn?" Elia asked as she stood by the open window, heavy winter robes protecting her from the frigid air, "Magic! Elves, Orcs, those… Cat people! And I was told there is a race of lizard men that frequent the docks, and that they can breathe underwater!"

"You should not believe such ridiculous rumors!" her brother chided, "People are like to say anything if they think other's will listen."

The Princess scoffed at the Prince, "Oh really? I used to dismiss Erik's stories of magic and elves, and now those stories are staring me in the face!"

"Next thing you're telling me you believe that dragons are still flying around, as these… people… claim."

Elia shook her head incredulously, "Did you not see the bones in the courtyard? Those weren't ancient and weathered bones like those Aries kept in the throne room."

Oberyn rolled his eyes, "So now you're a maester?"

"I have eyes, brother. And unlike yours they are open!"

Lynesse's eyes were open too, and bloodshot, and staring at the hearth blankly. It was still settling in what had happened. She wasn't quite sure what was meant by the healer Collette when she had said the blonde woman wasn't entirely barren. Would she be able to have children again? Would she need time to recover and then be as fertile as she was before, which was, obviously, very fertile. Four children in three years is not something many women could boast.

And would Erik really cast her aside?

Of course not. A single second of rationale thought concerning the man she loved and Lynesse knew without a doubt that he would not cast her aside for something like this. Adultery, perhaps, barren, no. But would their relationship change? Certainly, but Lynesse could not know if it would be for better or worse.

One thing was certain, neither were ready to talk about it.

The door to the chamber swung open, Erik and a woman, one of the ashen skinned people. Both were carrying rolled up pieces of papers and heavy tomes.

"I've heard rumors of a force of Forsworn gathering in the forest between the Reach and Falkreath," the ashen skinned being had a melodic voice, "But the prevailing theory is that ever since the Legion had been rooting them out that they're trying to regroup. To learn that it is a Daedric plot is… disturbing."

The scrolls rolled out on the table to reveal detailed maps that Lynesse could only just make out some scribbles on.

"I don't know how much Malacath is truly involved, or if the Forsworn are even the issue. But it's as good a spot as anywhere to start," Erik replied as he stabbed a knife into the corner of the map to keep it pinned.

"Oh," the dark elf said suddenly, looking between Lynesse sitting on the sofa facing the hearth and the two Dornish standing at the window, "I didn't realize this room was occupied…"

"They're with me," Lynesse's husband replied curtly, briefly meeting eyes with his wife before looking back at the map.

The dark skinned woman's red eyes looked on in curiosity before she dipped her head, "Well I am Brelyna Maryon. An old friend of Erik's."

"Princess Elia Martell," Elia said softly from the window, not daring to do anything but watch the strange being.

"Prince Oberyn Martell," the famous flirt was far more reserved in person than in rumor. Of course this could be due to the fact the people he had been surrounded with so far were not human.

Those red eyes found Lynesse on the sofa and forced a response.

"Lynesse."

"Just Lynesse?"

She blinked.

"Forgive me if I have offended, but you have the countenance of a noble woman."

"Lynesse… Stormcrown."

The hooded woman spun on Erik in the blink of an eye. She didn't say anything, but if her body language was any sort of identifier, she was not impressed with Lord Stormcrown. Erik stared back at the much smaller figure before looking past the hooded head and meeting his wife's eyes once more, an apology swimming in those expressive chocolate orbs.

"She is my wife."

Brelyna poked a finger into the huge man's chest, "You ran off with a noblewoman? Do I even want to know the story? How could you be so stupid! You've ruined that poor woman's life you know that? It's always like this with you. You go off on your grand 'adventures' and tear down relationships and traditions with no regard for the people you trample on your way…"

Lynesse had had enough as she rose from the sofa, grabbed Brelyna by the shoulder, spun her around, and delivered an open palm slap that left her hand, and the elf's face, stinging.

"Don't talk to my husband like that. Old friend or not," she was seething, everything had been bottled up, no chance to vent, no chance to make up with her husband, no chance at intimacy or comfort, and now it was all coming out.

"It wasn't my choice, it certainly wasn't my preference, but Erik has been nothing but a good man, a kind man, and you don't get to speak to him that way because he has given me everything! What do you know of our life?"

Tears she did not know she had welled up in her eyes and she could feel herself winding up as she stared daggers into the dark elf. Her arm moved, and Lynesse was pretty sure she was about to smack Brelyna again when she was suddenly enveloped by a pair of powerful arms and pressed into a warm and expansive chest.

"I think we're done for now… We'll talk later Brelyna," Erik said as he held his wife for the second time in one day.

…

The wind was harsh, but seal skin clothing protected her as the large frame of her husband kept her warm.

The pair were perched at the top of the College, overlooking the Sea of Ice.

"How do you think the children are fairing?" Lynesse asked quietly as she watched a white feathered eagle soar nearby.

Erik huffed, "Baelor probably thinks this is his chance to have fun. I told Davos to tell everyone that we had left for trade negotiations with the Martells, so the little biter is likely pushing his luck."

The former Hightower smiled, "You think he's giving Davos hell?"

"Conceived of my seed, born of your womb… How could he do anything else?"

"He's going to grow into a great man someday. Just like his father. I already see so much of him in you."

The warrior pressed his lips to the top of Lynesse's uncovered blonde hair, "Hopefully not too much of me, or else he will grow to be a great, and ugly man!"

This time the woman laughed, "Great, ugly, and a fool!" she leaned up and pressed her lips to his, "but a great man all the same."

"For his sake I hope he ends up more like you," Erik told her, that adorably dopey smile spreading across his face, "With the same beautiful mind that makes you such a wonder to me."

She buried her face in his side as she hugged him closer, "What of Rayya?"

A deep growl vibrated against her face, "She's going to give me a lot of trouble…"

Confused, Lynesse lifted her head up, "What? Why?"

"That's one beautiful baby that's going to grow into a beautiful woman. Men are going to want a piece of her from the day she can walk," Erik's face formed a noiseless snarl, "I was always over protective of my sisters, I can't imagine how bad I'll be with my daughter…"

"You know we'll be receiving offers for her hand within just a few years," she told her increasingly agitated husband, "We'll likely have to marry her off before she is even truly a woman."

The rumble building in his chest only increased in noise, "Any man who wishes to touch my daughter before she is ready will…"

 _FWOOM!_

Lynesse furrowed her brow, "What is it?"

 _FWOOM!_

Erik sat up and held his wife apart from him as he looked wildly to the sky.

 _ **FWOOM!**_

A shadow fell over them and the terribly bitter cold shifted to a balmy summer night as a hot wind blew over the roof they had perched themselves on.

Her husband pulled her close and whispered in her ear, "Hold tight!"

"What's hap-"

Lynesse was unable to finish that thought as she was soon screaming as she fell from the roof, clinging tight to her husband the entire time.

 _ **FEIM!**_

Somehow, someway, landing on the balcony below didn't hurt, and as she finally peeled her eyes open, she could see that Erik was unhurt as well. The large man scooped her up and pushed her towards the door leading into the Hall of the Elements.

 _ **FWOOM!**_

"GO! GO!"

There was a resounding crash and Lynesse looked back at the balcony in time to see a giant, bronze scaled… dragon…

She just made it inside the door and was tackled aside just as a jet of flame burst through the door and set fire to everything in its path, including the stone walls.

Erik pulled her to her feet again, sweat already pouring from her pores from the intense heat generated by the dragon fire, "GO! I need Wuuthrad!"

It became clear he was going in a different direction than her, "Erik! What are you doing?"

"It's here for me, I have to occupy it. Go get Wuuthrad! It's in our rooms!"

…

"Lynesse?!" Elia asked as she burst into their shared rooms, "What's going on?"

"Dragon," came the breathless reply, "Where's Wuuthrad?"

Oberyn scoffed, "What?"

The slim blonde woman grabbed him by his coat, "Ax, big, heavy, where!?"

The Dornish Prince forced the former Hightower to let him go as he pointed over to the sofa on which the massive ax was leaning on.

The first attempt to lift it did not go as planned as the uneven weight pulled her over to one side. How did Erik wield this thing with one hand? Her second attempt was better, but mostly because Oberyn came over to help her lift the damn thing.

"Seven Hells!" the Prince exclaimed, "How does he lift this thing, let alone swing it!"

"Come on!" Lynesse exclaimed breathlessly, "We need to get to the courtyard!"

At that exact moment, the entire world shook.

"We need to GO!"

Students were running in a panic as the College shook, the teachers desperately trying to corral their charges as Lynesse and Oberyn ran through the halls, tandem carrying Wuuthrad with Elia following behind closely.

A deep voice rumbled through the air, shaking the very essence of reality with its power. No one knew what it said, but the Lady of Dragonstone recognized the voice.

Elia raced ahead and swung the doors into the courtyard wide open, and into a scene that could only have come from one of the Seven Hells.

The beautiful trees that had been growing in patches of grass were either trampled, or burned to ash. The great walls that kept people from wandering off the edge had been destroyed, the stone either melted into slag, or crushed and toppled and thrown down into the sea below.

The great bronze dragon stood on its hind legs, wings spread wide, wreathed in brassy flames. Its great maw, lined with dagger length teeth each glinting with a deadly edge most blacksmiths could only dream of putting on a blade, open in a rage filled roar at the man standing before it.

Erik stood strong, fists clenched at his sides as he stared defiantly into the deadly jaws before opening his own and letting loose a blast of power Lynesse did not know her husband was capable of.

 _ **FO… KRAH DIIN!**_

Bronze scales were encased in frost as the wreath of fire disappeared, and the great beast screamed in pain and frustration as the man escaped its grasp once again.

"Erik!"

Flames followed the man as he ran around the beast and towards his wife and the sole hope he had of defeating the great dragon.

A bronze tail slammed down between them before picking the big man up off of his feet and tossing him back across the courtyard.

" **Your Thu'um is strong… Dovahkiin!** "

Was… was the dragon speaking?

The clang of Wuuthrad hitting the ground and a soft feminine gasp let Lynesse know that both were just as surprised as her.

" **You are all I had hoped you would be! But without your armor… you are outmatched.** " The wyrm gloated, as it crawled closer to the downed man, " **Die now, knowing your killer was-** "

Thirty feet and five tons of fury, fire, and ruby red scales crushed the bronze dragon. Powerful lizard lion jaws clamped down on the offending beast's neck and twisted, a sickening bone crunching noise filling the courtyard.

The great, and gorgeous red let the bronze drop to the ground as it reared up, " **That's two… Wuth Fahdon…** "

 **No author notes, I'm tired. I'll respond to any PM's tomorrow, looking at you Angry Lil Elf. I got some stuff to say about your latest.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Laziness… too… powerful… Author's notes… at… bottom!**

Erik stared up at the giant reptilian. The ageless demi god that he was, Odahviing had changed little in the three and a half years he had last seen him. Those pure blue eyes stared back intently, ruby scales glittered prettily as powerful muscles twitched, and blood colored spines waved back and forth from the back of his head to the heavy spade tipped tail.

The man let out a bark of laughter as what his draconic friend had just said settled in, "I had him right where I wanted him!"

The bronze dragon had already started to burn, pieces of scales fluffing off and revealing a bright light underneath. This was going to be difficult to explain to his wife.

" **Unslaad krosis, Fahdon. I did not realize it was your grahmindol, your plan, to lie bex wah nos… helpless,** " the dragon smiled, a horrific and terrifying sight to anyone not familiar with dragons, " **How were you going to krii rok, to kill him?** "

The Dragonborn hauled himself to his feet, the winter leathers he had worn were charred and useless to cut out the chill. Fortunately, the energy pouring off of the brassy colored dragon was more than adequate to stave off the harsh wind and deep cold. Soon his mind would be awash in memories of a creature tens of thousands of years his elder, but before they could consume him he managed a retort.

"Perhaps I would take your tongue and impale him on that! It's certainly sharp enough."

The golden light hit him. It had certainly been a while since he had devoured the soul of a dragon, memories of the life of Yolfaasviir flooded him, overpowering even his senses as the feeling of hot drafts filled the canvas like webbing of his wings. The smell of fear filled his long nostrils and the sounds of screams battered against his horn covered ears. Soon the sight of burning buildings, slaughtered peoples, and fields of ash filled his eyes. Finally, the taste of mortals, as fresh as they day they were devoured, filled his mouth.

The taste was banished by the distinct bitterness of vomit as the nausea that one could expect from such an experience took over. He counted his blessings as he held himself over the edge of the chasm beneath the College watching his bile fall away. At least he wasn't reliving the slaughter of entire civilizations, or all the hate and vitriol the bronze dragon had kept towards all of mortal kind.

The last time he had devoured the souls of these immortal beasts, he had been used to it, and he had been a much harder man. A wife and four children had changed him greatly. He hadn't slowed down, as the lost souls of Apocrypha that had stood in his way had found out, and his instincts were still there, but the killer in him, the monster that had forged that suit of ebony and slain opposing swords by the hundreds, was buried.

Unfortunately… Erik would need to dig that creature back up, and let the dragon within him loose upon Skyrim. Particularly if Miraak was really spreading his influence, and gathering powerful allies.

"Erik."

The voice was weak, and full of concern. Whether that concern was for him, or for the massive ruby dragon looming over the courtyard was debatable.

The man turned to find his, as always, beautiful wife looking at him with concern, and pointedly not looking at the giant red reptile that was staring intently down at her. Clearly Odahviing was interested in the small woman he had never seen before, the red always being fascinated by the activities of mortal beings, finding them a source of great amusement.

"I'm fine… It's always a little nauseating," he told her as he stood up, "I imagine you have questions."

The blonde woman was wide eyed, and still shying away from the great beast in the center of the courtyard. Despite the fear that was clear in her body language, she managed a shaky nod.

"Lynesse," Erik started opening his body up to Odahviing, "This is Odahviing, yet another old friend of mine. Likely not the last you'll meet, but probably the most unique."

The woman just stared up at the dragon, giving Erik the right view to notice that they happened to share eye color, despite the fact the warrior had always thought the reptile's eyes were closer to sapphires than his wife's, but now that he could see them at the same time, they were definitely the same color.

"Uh… hello…"

Rather than simply returning the awkward greeting, Odahviing lunged forward only to stop short, causing Lynesse to leap in Erik's arms and let out a shrill squeal as the fire breathing lizard turned his head to focus one eye a little closer on the woman before whipping its head back around and pressing his snout in closer, blowing blonde hair as the dragon took a deep breath through the large nostrils and snorted hot, dry air all over the two mortals in front of him.

" **Aan mul zii, aan kul kiim fah hi Dovahkiin.** "

Those expansive canvas wings spread out, sucking in the bitterly cold air of Winterhold, before shoving all that freezing wind right through the people in the courtyard and propelling the reptile into the air.

" **I will be near, Fahdon. Call when you have need, or desire tinvaak."**

Erik kept watching as what was quite possibly, in fact, quite probably, his best friend disappeared over the looming mountain pass that hung over the town of Winterhold. The great and terrible red was as swift and deadly as ever, something the Dragonborn had noticed during the vampire threat, when he had called upon the dragon more and more. Odahviing was always swift in the air, and had a knack for knowing exactly when to interfere with the fight on the ground.

Winged Snow Hunter was every bit a stalker as his name suggested.

"Wha- what did he say?" the woman at his side asked, still in shock from actually speaking to a real live dragon, "About me?"

The Lord looked down at his lady as he put his arm around her shoulders, "He said you had a strong spirit. I think he was impressed, the first person I ever introduced him to, well he pissed himself. He thinks your strong willed enough to keep me in line."

Lynesse shook her head and let out a shaky breath, "I don't think I'll bother asking you how you understood it."

"Maybe you could tell us why one of your friends is a dragon!"

Oberyn was upset. The Prince of Dorne was used to the world making sense, or at least to him, as a man of significant wealth, standing, and power. Here he had no wealth, no standing, and no power. And regardless of how arrogant the youngest Martell might be, even he knew that a fight with Erik was a death sentence.

That didn't mean the young man was smart, he wasn't. Sure he had gone to the Citadel, received an extensive education, but an education doesn't make someone smart. Davos couldn't even read, and Erik put more faith in the former smuggler's mind than Prince Oberyn's.

"Perhaps you might even be so kind as to explain what you even are!"

"Oberyn," his sister, and significantly more level headed of the two, reprimanded, "He just saved our lives!"

"He put them in danger!" the Red Viper exclaimed, "He's a walking disaster for anyone close to him! It's a wonder we've survived this long! Sister, you nearly were killed on the way too this accursed place. I almost lost all of my fingers. He makes his own wife, barren-"

The rant stopped short as Oberyn fell to the ground, clutching a broken nose. Normally Erik's knuckles would sting just a little after hitting someone like that, so he could only imagine how Elia's felt as she shook her hand.

"Quiet, fool!" she spat, "You're my brother and I love you, but you need to know when to shut up!"

The much healthier looking Elia swung back on the warrior, "He did have valid questions though, and I want them answered!"

The warrior held his tongue as he thought about how best to answer them. The Arcaneum would be the best place to go. He wouldn't have to speak, and there would be piles upon piles of books able to help dissuade any doubts. Urag gro-Shub wasn't exactly Erik's biggest supporter, but he was a staunch supporter of the truth, and was essentially an entire volume of texts all wrapped up inside a bitter old orc.

He reached down and hauled Oberyn to his feet as he started walking towards the main door leading into the Hall of Elements, "Follow me, we'll get your answers."

…

The carving knife felt good in his hands. It had been a long time since Erik really had a chance to do some honest, hard, physical work. Sure he kept his skills honed in the training yard, but fighting was good work to his mind. He was born to a blacksmith, he was raised to work and work hard and the lordship over the island of Dragonstone didn't afford him the opportunity to just… make something, or harvest something, or earn his way.

This was the reason the carving knife felt so good as he cut another piece of hard bronze scales from what little flesh remained of Yolfaasviir. The simple and rather indelicate task of simply carving off the chunks of remaining flesh from the massive skeleton.

It never ceased to amaze him that each dragon skeleton, regardless of whether it was an ancient bronze, a bold green, a dangerous red, or a large serpent, looked almost identical. There was some difference in the head, the horns were always a little different, but it didn't matter if it was bigger than usual, or more heavily armored, the rest of the skeleton was the same. It was almost enough to give the big man pause.

"Those friends of yours, well just the one really, is making a mess of my library!"

Looking over his shoulder as he pulled the individual scales from the grey gristle, Erik saw Urag glaring at him through those infamously bushy eyebrows, his mouth set in a nasty line, yellowed tusks digging into green cheeks.

"The boy? Annoying, and a fool, but he's not a bad person… well no… he is. He doesn't mean poorly?" the Dragonborn thought on the Prince a little longer, "He's educated, but he's also an ass. Comes from never being told no his entire life. If you want, you have my permission to put a tingle in his britches if he's ruining any of the books."

"Already did," the old orc replied, broad arms so common with his people crossed over an equally broad chest, "He's calmed down, still making a mess out of my shelves. I'll have my work cut out for me when I get back, but that's not what I came out here to talk to you about."

Erik placed the scales in a leather sack where a few choice bones already lay. Overall the parcel would not be too heavy, he truly hadn't taken much, but it was more than enough to make something interesting.

"Then why are you here? I know you don't particularly care for me."

"You're right, but I do care about the College and the people who've made this place their home. Brelyna tells me she's going with you."

What a friend. Erik had been dreading asking the woman who had hired him to protect her and her friend J'zargo through Mzulft to risk her life by coming along, but it would appear he needn't even ask.

"She's a grown woman."

"She's unhappy here."

The warrior blinked, "Unhappy? What's happened?"

The green skinned librarian uncrossed his arms and gestured towards the open part of the grand stone walls that framed the courtyard so that they could look over the Sea of Ice and be afforded a little privacy.

"She's stifled here. There's no chance for her to go out and explore, learn. She has the fire for learning, more specifically, field learning," the orc explained, "But the opportunity for it isn't here. Girl feels bound to this place, like she's needed here. Truth is, we made the right choice in J'zargo. Damn cat is bold, and that's something the College was lacking in Savos Aren."

Erik stared at the old mage. The orc and he weren't friendly, but they were frank. Both held themselves to a standard of conduct that preached candidness. Urag was telling the truth, and was about to ask something of him.

"Are you going to ask me to take her?"

"I'm asking you to keep her," the orc corrected bluntly, "I wish she didn't have to go, she's as smart as anyone here, but her place isn't with the College."

"And you think it's with me?"

"I think she'll find it. Brelyna just needs to be pushed towards it."

Urag walked off, towards the Hall doors only to meet Lynesse and Elia walking out of them, both immediately zeroing in on Erik. Neither looked entirely sure of themselves, or at least not sure of him.

This is what he had feared. No longer was he just a husband and friend. He wasn't a man anymore. Now he was something out of legend, a storybook character, not human. Very few ever really saw past the Dragonborn, J'zargo was one, Brelyna another, and Vilkas was hopefully still out there. But people like Mjoll or Aela, all they could see was the legend, the things he was supposed to accomplish. He liked them, but he was never close to any of them, and being Dragonborn was the main reason for it.

He could only hope that it wouldn't poison his marriage. Things were rough enough already, with her blaming him, and rightfully so, for their current predicament, they didn't need any more distance.

As for one of the few friends he had made in Westeros, though he didn't get to see her often, Elia was always a welcome guest in his home. The former Targaryen princess was uncharacteristically rational for a person of her birth, not like her brother, and as a result, Erik found that he could hold a conversation with her the way he couldn't even with his wife. That didn't even mention the wonderful little Rhaenys Elia always brought with her.

Steeling himself for another uncomfortable interaction with the two women, Erik was in no way prepared for the ferocious hug that petite Lynesse managed to wrap him up in. It was somewhat amusing considering, the blonde woman couldn't even get her arms all the way around him, but it was still crushing, and warm.

"I'm sorry," the muffled apology coming from his chest confused the Dragonborn.

"For what?"

"For not believing you," she continued to speak directly into the soft horker skin coat coving his upper body, "And for being mad at you…"

Erik smiled, "Well, don't stop being mad at me. Keeps me on my toes."

The small woman began giggling into his chest, "All nine of them."

Elia frowned, "Nine?" the warrior opened his mouth to answer only for the Princess to hold out her hand, "Nevermind. I just want to know what we're doing next. How are we getting home?"

A frown worked its way onto the homely man's face, "Unfortunately, our way home lies solely through the good grace of Hermaeus Mora. I must do what he asks."

The princess straightened, "Where should we start?"

"We?" the warrior asked incredulously, "Maybe I could make use of Oberyn, for all of his character faults he is a formidable warrior, but what would I do with you two? This world is dangerous, I can't protect you from everything out there, I'll barely be able to protect myself…"

"I don't need protecting," the fiery Dornish woman started.

"No…" Erik interrupted forcefully, "You do. Cold weather nearly killed you, you'd stand no chance against a sabre cat, let alone whatever enemies we will eventually have to face! Men and women, who are not anything like you've ever seen in Westeros or Essos, capable of feats you could only dream of."

"You always told me there is more than one way to win a fight," Lynesse suddenly said, backing up from their embrace, "but when faced with one you're just going to ignore all other options?"

"If there was any way to negotiate with Miraak, or his allies, I would. But you don't know him, you don't know what he's capable of."

"I only know the barest of what _your_ capable of," his wife replied quickly, "Those texts told much of the legend of the Dragonborn, very little of your abilities."

"Though if they are to be believed," Elia added on, "You are likely one of the most powerful living things in the world. What do you have to fear from this Miraak?"

Erik's face grew stony, "Did you know that I'm the Last Dragonborn?"

Both women nodded, and Elia said, "Yes, but I'm still not sure what that means."

"It means that I'm the last," the large man replied simply, and with a little more attitude than was explicitly called for, "No one, not my children, not my grandchildren, not anyone for the rest of the world's history will have the power of the Dragonborn. But it also means that if there is a Last, there must be a First… Miraak."

Neither of his audience members said a word as Erik sent a wad of spittle flying over the edge of the College's great courtyard, "A vile man, who once served the dragons when they would enslave entire species, then served himself in a tyrannical rule of Solstheim, and finally served Mora to save his life. He rebelled against the old demon, and bent the will of everyone on Solstheim to serve his purpose."

He slung the sack of dragon scales and bones over his shoulder and did his best to make it clear this conversation was over with a final statement, "He is as close to real evil I have ever seen in a single person, and his domination is absolute. If I must fight him, as I will, it will have to be on his terms."

"Then you will need all the help you can get," Lynesse said forcefully, stopping his retreat dead, "And while I am no warrior, I am a much better talker than you."

Erik looked at Elia for help only to find her glaring at him, "If you try and leave me, I'll follow you. How long do you think I would last, alone?"

Defeat, at the hand of two women, who if put together, probably don't even weigh as much as his left leg.

"Fine, get to bed then. We leave at day break."

"It's hours until sunset!"

Erik snorted, "This far north, in the summer, night lasts just over an hour. I'd say we have less than six before sunrise."

…

Lynesse was quite the surprising horsewoman, particularly considering the massive breed of horse common to Skyrim. The giant brown mare dwarfed the warhorses of Westeros, and Erik's petite beauty of a wife commanded the steed with all the authority of an experienced knight. It was actually fairly impressive considering both Dornish people in the group were struggling with their own towering mounts. Most horses responded to a firm hand fairly evenly, these beasts, however, came with an attitude. One that served them well when facing down a pack of gray wolves or a snow bear, but did not serve a rider unaccustomed to such a willful steed.

Both Oberyn and Elia were accomplished riders, however, and were learning quickly, something that irked the Dragonborn to no end as he led the party on foot.

He and horses, any kind of horse, did not get along well. Something that started when he had first taken the beast blood, but even after he had cleansed himself of it, the beasts of burden took exception to him. He could still ride one, but it was a constant chore to keep the animal calm, and his already considerable weight added onto the weight of his armor and weapons, and the half Nord was just better off walking.

Snow still powdered the land, but the path had obviously seen travel. The mountains that pressed Winterhold against the Sea of Ice were looming to the north rather than the south and now trees pressed in on them. Great green needled things, older than many of the great ruins that dotted the landscape of Skyrim, their huge size combining with the bright snow to create a forest floor of nearly perpetual twilight, providing just enough light to see the shapes stalking them.

"We are being followed," Oberyn said casually. For all the faults Erik found in the Dornish Prince, the Red Viper was an experienced man of the world, and knew better than to look worried about it, or raise his voice in alarm.

"They won't bother us," the large man said, "as long as we don't delay through this land anyway."

"Who are they," Elia asked with a hushed voice, clearly not aware that anyone in the woods off the path wouldn't be close enough to make out any words, and in fact was being far more suspicious by changing her tone.

"Spriggans," Brelyna said from atop her own steed. Come to think of it, why did Erik pay for _her_ horse?

"And Erik is correct," the dunmer continued, "as long as we're through their territory by sundown, they won't bother us."

"How will we know that we're out of their territory?" Oberyn asked, easily looking to the treetops so that he might catch a glimpse of the creatures stalking the party.

"At the top of the ridge you'll be able to see it," the Dragonborn replied, "The trees in this forest are centuries old, but the ancient line ends in another ten miles."

"Undoubtedly we'll be subject to a bandit attack once the old trees are out of sight," the mage of the group added.

Elia looked back at the Dunmer, "Then why continue? Why subject to ourselves to attack from the bandits as the sun is setting rather than try and sneak by in the morning?"

"Because if we're not out of the old forest by sundown, the spriggans will attack us," Erik answered, wincing at a blister that had formed on his left foot. Being lord of a castle had made his body soft to the rigors of the road.

"Are they that dangerous?" Oberyn asked, genuinely curious.

The Dovahkiin looked back to the dunmer, "Brelyna…"

The she elf flipped her hand and a ball of light shot into the forest, easily illuminating one of the stalkers. To Lynesse's credit, she didn't scream, but the mild yip of surprise still echoed like a thunderclap in the silent forest.

Standing lightly atop a bank of snow was seven and a half feet of twisted bark and greenery in the form of a slender and shapely woman, with an impassive face and crown of angry branches framing the feminine visage. Large hands ended in vicious looking whips of sharpened timber, and its hollowed form glowed dimly with ancient power.

"Right," the Prince had the decency of sounding impressed by the otherworldly being, "I'll take your word for it. We'll take the bandits."

"It'll be a few hours at our pace," the Dragonborn said, "I'll let you know when we're close."

"Plan?" Brelyna asked non chalantly, not to hide their conversation from the spriggans, who were clearly uncaring of what the group was saying, or even their intentions. The forest spirits concerned themselves only with whether or not the group would leave their sacred land.

"I'll take the stick up man and his thugs," Erik said as he rolled his unarmored shoulders and patted Storm's Wrath at his hip, "Oberyn will handle the flanking pair, you handle the archers. Try not to burn the forest down."

The dunmer cracked her taped knuckles, an old habit she had picked up from the days when she would run with both Erik and Vilkas and… Farkas. Well, really she was just there for Farkas, but the dunmer had picked up the habit of crudely taping her fingers, despite the fact she never needed to grip a weapon in combat.

"Erik, are you sure you don't want to ride?" Lynesse asked once again, as the sun approached the treetops, "I'm sure this brown mare can handle you…"

He couldn't resist, "I'm sure she could, but unfortunately she's just not my type."

A small booted foot kicked him in the lower back, "Ass, I mean, you must be tired. You've been walking all day, every day for the past three!"

The large man pulled at his wife's waist, pulling her over on the saddle before pressing a brief kiss to her lips, "I appreciate the concern, but I've never been much of a rider, and truth be told, I don't have a very good relationship with animals."

"Every hound in every town has to immediately stop what they're doing to bark and howl at him," Brelyna added, "Has something to do with the Dragon Soul I think. Animals don't much like Odahviing either."

"Odd Wing is forty feet long and breathes fire," Elia replied sarcastically, "Erik's just tall."

The mage shook her head, "Animals don't see such things the way we do. I had an experiment to test reactions of dogs and cats to the presence of various people. I was struggling with the decision for a control, and of course how I'd select the people I'm exposing the animals to. Of course then there's the animals themselves, domestic dogs and wild ones behave differently. I don't know if perhaps the felines would…"

Erik let out a dramatic snore as he continued to plod on, resulting in an indignant huff from the she elf.

"Will you kick him again?"

"Gladly," Lynesse struck him in the back again. Not viciously, just enough to let him know that, while she was amused, he was also approaching the end of her patience, "Ass."

A small fritter of laughter floated over the group of travelers, interrupted as Oberyn came to a correct conclusion.

"Forest is a little greener," the Prince pointed out.

"Gonna get a little more red," Erik replied as he looked back up to his wife, nonverbally telling her to drift back into the middle of the group with Elia.

The Red Viper slid from his saddle and grabbed the leader from his mount's reigns. A sharp steel sword hung from his hip, a far cry from his preferred spear, but the warriors of Skyrim were more likely to throw an ax head on a lengthened handle than a speartip. Still, the slender man was more than deadly enough with a longsword.

The group settled in their march, both Lynesse and Elia ready to fall flat to their horse's saddle. Brelyna's knuckles cracked, blood red eyes scanning the snow banks and needle clad branches for the ambushers sure to be waiting.

She might as well not have bothered.

Standing in the center of the road were four men. Three burly orcs to give Erik a push for sheer mass led by a single Breton woman. In comparison to the jade giants, the dark haired, dark eyed woman looked like a dwarf, but carried herself like a warrior.

The orcs wore heavy green armor, belying the true nature of the metal encasing their heavy bodies. The two on the ends held heavy verdant shields and long handled moss green pole handled axes. What's more, they looked like they knew how to use them.

The orc standing directly behind and to the right of the lead woman was the tallest of the trio, and the leanest, with no helmet covering his spiked brow and the ponytail extending from the lone strip of hair down the center of his head. Two vicious, and serrated, axes hung from his hips as his thick corded arms crossed an expansive chest. The orc's vicious grin gave away the obvious, he was the most dangerous one of the quartet.

The woman, in contrast to her heavily armored allies, wore a dark cloak over her shoulders and head, but didn't do enough to conceal the war paint on her face, or the manic gleam in her eyes.

These were no bandits, and the others in the group had caught on too…

"Dragonborn!" the woman called out, heavy accent further confirming Erik's suspicions, "We've been waiting for you!"

The Forsworn woman licked her lips as she cocked her head, "The Commander said you'd come for us, straight south from Winterhold. Did you like the welcome back gift he sent for you? Shame it wrecked that pretty college, I'm just hoping there's still some good loot left."

The big man standing at the front narrowed his eyes even as battle honed senses could pick out the sounds of attackers moving in around them.

"Miraak sent you?"

The woman blinked as she stared him down, "Don't know anyone named meerkat, the Commander sent us, and he sent us for your head!"

The snow banks to either side of the road exploded into action as more men and women in dark cloaks and steel weapons erupted from the white powder and rushed the group. Some did not make it far as their compatriots as dark red bolts of fire cut through the dark cloaks and through the light steel chainmail underneath.

The three that made it past Brelyna's magic met Oberyn's steel. The Forsworn were dangerous, and desperate combatants, typically attacking with an abandon that could overwhelm an undisciplined or inexperienced warrior. The Red Viper was neither of those things.

Erik's attentions were not upon the fight behind him, however. No, they were placed solely on the taller Orc and the serrated blades of his axes as they sped towards his unarmored flesh.

Storm's Wrath slapped aside the ax on the right, the Dragonborn following his weapon's path to avoid the left ax. Planting his right foot in the ground, Erik pushed his shoulder into the orc's plated chest to gain separation.

Once apart, Skyforge steel met Orichalcum from both weapons and showered the stones beneath them with dull red sparks. The orc was fast, and strong, stronger than Erik for sure, but was a berserker, not a disciplined fighter. He did have another advantage, however, as the half-Nord was forced to duck and roll away from the long handled ax.

This was a bad spot, stuck between two opponents with superior reach and armor, trapping him in with an opponent with superior strength and speed. Orcs were naturally dangerous enemies, heavier and stronger than any of the other recognized intelligent races, with natural redundancies that made killing them a feat of perseverance more than anything. But what really made them more dangerous in melee combat that any of the other races, was the fact they were simply smarter than most people were. Orc strongholds did not suffer fools, or weaklings. Only the strongest and smartest survived, and the three circling him right now were prime examples of the specimens such a society produced.

Erik was fast, as fast as he had to be, and it was barely enough to keep himself alive as heavy blades crashed against his defenses. The taller one was unbelievably fast, though he was prone to mistakes, the other two made up for any deficiencies in his fighting.

The three were wearing him down as his blade bounced and reverberated in his hand every time dark and smoky metal met jade green mineral, and felt the jagged edges of the green weapons in his flesh more and more often as it went along.

Short glimpses of the rest of the small skirmish were all that was afforded him, and the quartet was not fairing much better.

Oberyn was a better swordsman than the enemies facing him, but numbers counted for something too, as he found himself in a similar situation to Erik. The Forsworn were hammering him from all sides, and it was all he could do to survive.

Brelyna was having considerably more success than the other two, but also was saddled with the responsibility of protecting both Lynesse and Elia. An increasingly difficult task as more and more of the dark robed Forsworn poured out of the forest.

Whoever this 'Commander' was, be it Miraak or one of his subordinates, they weren't keen on risks, and were using the natural aggression of the Forsworn to take the Thu'um out of the picture. Any Shout would harm his wife and friends as much as the savages.

Well, _almost_ any Shout. Exertion showed on his now sweaty face as he pulled the handle of one of the heavy orcs, twisting his upper body to drive a shoulder into the jade green man's armored chest and spin him around into his twin ally.

Throwing Storm's Wrath up, Erik managed to lock the hilt in with the incoming short handled ax and wrench it down. A left hook probably did more damage to the human's fist than it did to the tall orc's face, but it did what he needed it to do.

The three orc warriors seemed surprised by the maneuver, but had quickly regained their bearing, far too quickly for any conventional warrior to take advantage, but Erik was Dovahkiin, and by no means conventional.

Storm's Wrath clattered to the ground, further confusing the orcs before the warrior took a deep breath…

 _ **MUL QAH DIIV!**_

Light encased his unarmored form, energy filled tired limbs, and power flooded through his veins.

Left hand caught the head of the long handled ax, the sharpened mineral not bothering his bare skin in the slightest as the right hand splintered the handle. The right fist swung back, back handing the helmeted orc, resulting in a spray of dark red blood and a sickening snap of the neck.

Lunging faster than even his already unnatural quickness, Erik crossed the gap to the second shielded warrior and delivered a punishing blow the dark green shield, shattering the horned circle and exposing him to an uppercut that literally lifted his head right off his shoulders.

A serrated ax struck the big man in the back, succeeding in only annoying the power drunk demi god. Another struck his shoulder, then it swung around and tried for a clean shot at the head only for Erik to grab the wrist holding the offending weapon, and turn the bones inside to powder. The orc didn't scream for long as his armor was split open, rib cage shattered, and one of two hearts were ripped out and shoved back into his open mouth.

The Dragonborn spun on his heels, delivering a right cross as he did, and turned a Forsworn man's head to mush.

Erik swung his left arm around and shattered a steel sword. The same hand gripped the attacker's head and squeezed. Dark red blood and squishy grey matter leaked out between clenched fingers and over his bare hand.

Two savages formed up, trying to present a strong front. They failed.

 _ **WULD!**_

His over powered form shot forward faster than any eye could track. Not that the two sets of eyes that needed to track them could anyway, being that their very beings had been torn apart by the whirlwind of destruction that was the glowing demigod.

Oberyn was relieved as the tall woman he was engaged with was struck and flung by the body of one of her own compatriots. Neither rose again. Both Reach natives that were harassing Brelyna both had their heads pushed down in through their necks.

There was only one of the attacking party left…

Erik grabbed the short Breton woman by the neck, holding her aloft with ease. The golden aura surrounding the Dovahkiin gave the giant man a menacing appearance and cast an unflattering light upon the savage woman, who perhaps now, finally, understood the situation she was in, and exactly _who_ she was dealing with.

"Oberyn," his voice boomed with ethereal authority, seeming to come from everywhere at once, "Dagger."

Erik's outstretched hand was quickly filled with the smooth ivory handle of the Red Viper's favorite weapon, "It's not poisoned."

The large man reached up with lethally sharp instrument, pointing the tip at the woman's face, "I need you to take a message back to this… Commander. Let me write it down so you won't forget it…"

…

Two days and no one had said a word to him. They were all in various states of shock, either of the power he wielded, or the brutality he displayed. He regretted none of it. The love of his life was in danger, his friends almost overrun, and the ambush had been too well set. Heavily armored opponents for him, and numbers for the rest. Catching him without armor, and putting the most vulnerable at risk so as to keep them rooted to one spot.

This was why Erik wore his full plate armor, with Wuuthrad slung across his back. If he had gone into the previous battle armed and armored as he should have been, maybe his wife would still talk to him. Skyrim was shock to both her, and the two Martells. Khajit, magic, dragons, his Dragonborn abilities, and the true nature of his own brutality.

The last incident might have been the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back. They had been willing to accept a radically different world, because he was still the man they knew. But as soon as he clad himself in golden light and ethereal armor, and unleashed his fury upon other living things, he had ceased to be the man they knew. The husband and father Lynesse had known, the friend Elia had gotten along with.

Brelyna wasn't necessarily shocked, but the dunmer was more than aware of the awkward atmosphere in the party, and had, perhaps wisely, chosen to remain quiet.

A roar split the air, causing the three non-natives to jump a little at the sound. Neither Dragonborn or mage even twitched. Sabre cats were dangerous predators, big as a small bear, fast as loose arrow, and ferocious as a daedra, but they weren't gamblers. And five people and four giant horses was a gamble for the solitary predators.

"What was that?" the first word in days belonged to Elia, who had adapted to the road admirably considering her chronic sickness.

"Sabre cat," the dunmer riding next to her answered, "They hunt alone, so nothing to worry about. If you hear a trumpeting sound, then we need to be worried."

"Trumpets?" Erik's wife asked from the other side of Elia, "Are we worried about vicious roaming bands?"

"Not bands of musicians," Brelyna answered with a laugh, "Bands of giants keep herds of mammoths, whose call sounds like a trumpet. If we hear that, we need to take special care to avoid them."

"Or at least keep our distance," Erik finally said, "If you leave giants alone, they'll leave you alone. The people of Whiterun have had a long standing loose relationship with the gentle nomads."

The softening tundra squelched under his boots as he veered off the road just a hair to grab a wild flower growing there, popping the sweet plant into his mouth to wipe the taste of grain and his own spit out of his mouth.

Chewing on the soft white petals, the half Nord continued, "They even trade with them from time to time. Mammoth hides may not be the softest material, but there's nothing warmer on a frigid winter night, and their tusks produce ivory so fine that even the Khajiit of Esleweyr with their elephants would prefer to use mammoth tusks."

Brelyna nodded from her mount and added, "Their cheese is a delicacy as well."

"Meat's a little tough."

"It'll fill your belly."

The Dragonborn nodded, "Yes it will."

"Mammoths are nothing but stories back in Westeros," Lynesse said as she put her head on a swivel, likely hoping to catch a glimpse of the majestic beasts, "And giants are fairytales…"

"Well they're real enough here," Erik told the blonde woman, "And… nearby enough it would seem."

The group halted at his words as he spit the chewed up petals out of his mouth and stepped off the road towards a large puddle in the muddy tundra. Close inspection revealed what he had expected, the puddle was a giant footprint, and only one of a line that cut across the road.

"Only one, no mammoth's with him it would seem," he deduced loud enough for everyone else to hear, "Came by recently, no more than an hour with how clean the water filling it seems to be."

"What's a lone giant doing out here?" Brelyna asked. It certainly was unusual for a giant to be found wandering alone this far north.

"He's clearing this area," the experienced tracker declared, "I've seen this before… when they want to move a herd into a new area. They send one of their best hunters out ahead of them to root out bandits, or wolves, or…"

"Sabre cats?"

Erik made eye contact with the dunmer, "Aye… he's very near by…"

"Mother's Mercy…" Oberyn suddenly breathed out before pointing, "He's not nearby, he's here!"

It always amazed him how stealthy the twelve foot titans could be. Somehow the blue painted human analog that weighed as much as three horses put together had snuck up on the group while they were inspecting its tracks. It was kneeling down, using its club that was longer than Erik was tall as an arm rest while its other hand loosely held a rock that would be a boulder by most men's standards. The Dragonborn held no illusions, if the nomad was inherently hostile, that boulder likely would have already crushed their bodies from afar.

Standing to regard the 'man', chocolate eyes locked with softly glowing blue ones and an understanding was reached. Erik held his arms apart, gauntleted hands extended and open to reveal no weapons in them. The giant tossed the boulder to the side with a resounding crash that echoed through the wide open tundra before reaching its left hand up and tapping his back, sending a clear message to the warrior as he unslung Wuuthrad and buried the head in a fallen root that had once belonged to a forest that had stretched all the way to Whiterun.

The bearded colossus nodded and gestured for Erik to approach, which he did slowly.

"What are you doing?" Lynesse asked, worry clear in her voice, "It could crush you with a flick of its wrist!"

"Thank you for your confidence in me," he replied dryly, "but you're going to have to trust that I know what I'm doing."

"If there was but a shred of evidence you did, I would," she called back, "Please don't die."

"I'll do my best," he mumbled in response. There was no way she could hear it, but it wasn't wise to yell in front of a giant, for as big as they were, they weren't loud speakers, and treated raised voices with hostility.

Stopping short of the half naked titan, Erik finally spoke directly to it, "Greetings."

The reply wasn't in a language most understood. Only a natural inclination towards languages, perhaps a side effect of being Dovahkiin, and extensive lessons with an orc priestess allowed him to understand, and even then it was only a general sense.

In this case, the giant was returning his hello.

"We weren't expecting to see giant's this far north."

The sound of a giant speaking was exactly what you would think it was, in that you felt it more than heard it. Deep bass rumbling through the air and ground.

"You were driven north? By what?"

The giant was clearly upset as it gave the answer.

"An army? Whose?"

Banners, not Legion, not Stormcloak, not Thalmor, but familiar, even through the alien language of the inherently gentle nomads of Skyrim.

"How long ago?"

A day, no more, through Rorikstead.

A chill crept down Erik's spine as he began to see the situation down south taking form.

"Where were they headed?"

Whiterun. The only place they could be going. Solitude was the largest, and had a port, and Windhelm was the most defensible, but Whiterun was the heart of Skyrim. Trade between any two holds went through the tundra city first. Travelers from Cyrodil, High Rock, Hammerfel, Morrowind, anyone who visited Skyrim might come in through one of the perimeter holds, but they all eventually wound up in the shadow of Dragonsreach for one reason or another.

"How many?"

Too many. Unless he could round up a couple more dragons. Odahviing had been following him from a distance, and Durnehviir could, presumably, still be called from the Soul Cairn. But if what the giant was saying about the army marching on Whiterun was true, even their might couldn't defeat the horde of orcs and Forsworn. Not without destroying the city in the process anyway.

"We need to pass through here. We have to reach Whiterun before they do!"

The giant spoke again, and the chill turned to a pit in his stomach. The city was already under siege. It had survived them before, the most recent being the Stormcloak rebellion, but there was no Legion stationed within the city walls to help defend it this time. At best, all they could do is hold out, wait for the Legion to send an army to break the siege, at worst, the city was already lost.

Erik let out a deep sigh, he had no choice, "We still need to get there. Can we pass?"

Yes, they could, but it would be futile to go there. Nothing but death awaited them now.

"Well?" Brelyna asked when he returned to the group, wrenching Wuuthrad from the ancient tree stump and slinging it across his back.

"Whiterun is under siege. Ten thousand orcs and Forsworn surround it. That's what drove the giants north."

"What?" the dunmer asked in shock, "How did they gather so many? How are they not fighting amongst themselves? How did they get past Legion patrols and spies?"

The big man spat on the ground, "This is Miraak's work, and more than a simple bid for control of Skyrim. When his servant returned with news of her defeat, he knew where we were, and where we were going. Now he's trying to draw me into a fight I can't win. It worked well."

"I saw you kill men and break steel with your bare hands two days ago!" Oberyn exclaimed, "Then there's that dragon of yours, surely you can do something!"

"Odahviing and I could break the siege, but we'd also break the city in the process. There is little subtlety to the Thu'um, and Miraak knows this. Once we attack, his forces would hug the city walls, making it impossible for me to destroy them without destroying Whiterun."

"Can they hold out until this Legion comes for them?" Elia asked, looking to both Brelyna and Erik, who shook his head.

"If we don't arrive quickly, they'll storm the walls and sack the city," the Dragonborn said, "Then disperse back into the wilderness. Unless there's another army nearby, then I don't know what I can do but walk into this trap and hope for the best."

"What if you recruited one?" Lynesse suddenly asked, gathering looks from the other members of the party, "an army, I mean."

"An army made up of what?" Erik asked, "Mudcrabs?"

He flung a small rock at a glossy boulder only for the monstrous crab creature to erupt from the muck and begin swinging it's large claws wildly in an attempt to kill whatever had stumbled upon it. Realizing there was no prey, and its eyesight being far too poor to see the man who had disturbed it.

"Well," his lady wife pondered for a second, then pointed at the retreating form of the giant, "What about them?"

Everyone blinked before Brelyna spoke up, "Giants are just a dozen different tribes, and besides, they're scattered across the Whiterun hold!"

"Unless the Forsworn drove them _all_ up north…" the warrior said slowly, "and their numbers would be great if they could consolidate into one force… But that's never happened. Giants don't form armies, and they don't interfere with the world of men."

"Alduin was immortal, and elves ruled Skyrim for thousands of years before the Atmorans came," his surprisingly knowledgeable, and increasingly assertive wife told him, "That's the thing about the status quo… it is subject to change."

Erik stared at her. How did he survive without a woman like her in his life?

He turned and chased after the giant, "Wait! Hold on!"

 **Aaaaaand that's a wrap. A regular wrap, not one of those gross spinach wraps or surprisingly good, but unfortunately light, flatbread wraps. Though if I had my say, I'd throw it on a bun, smother it in BBQ sauce, and cook up some potatoes to go with it. I'm from Iowa, it's how we eat things. With bread, BBQ, and a vegetable of our choosing. Usually corn or beans, but I'm partial to potatoes.**

 **Oh, the story? Yeah, not the greatest chapter, but could you imagine the pressure if you actually wrote the greatest chapter every time? You'd be held to the standard of perfection and if you fell even slightly short of it, you'd be picked to pieces.**

 **I know you guys probably wanted more Odahviing interaction, but I couldn't really hammer down how I thought they might react. Surprised yeah, but I didn't want it to turn into one of those chapters where everyone is always saying, 'that's impossible!' and then get promptly proven wrong. Once or twice a story, or in a humorously ironic fashion, that's fine. But so many stories have entire chapters where its nothing but that and frankly, I just lose interest in reading them. The same way I'm sure some of you are bound to let me know you've lost interest in this story, and then proceed to not tell me why. If you weren't going to help me out with it, why say anything at all?**

 **Next chapter is probably self explanatory, so I'll leave y'all to it.**

 **Read and review, don't want to write, what you don't want to read.**


	11. Chapter 11

Steel sang as it clashed again and again. The battle had just started and already it had reached a fever pitch. Twelve smaller people in dark cloaks and steel mail accompanied two much larger and more powerful orcs as they pressed in on four people of various race, size, and armament. Three of the defenders stood at the base of a small stone ruin in the forests along the banks of the White River while the fourth had braved the crumbling bricks to gain an advantage for his bow.

The archer was an Imperial man, wielding a bow nearly as tall as him and protected only by light scaled armor. On the ground, one of the defenders proved to be a woman wearing steel plate armor and wielding a sword and shield combination she used to great effectiveness when combating the lightly armed and armored Forsworn. The warrior at the opposite of her position on the triangular defense was another woman, a tall Redguard in ringed armor working a broad diamond shield and six foot steel tipped spear that had long since been stained red.

Finally there was him, at the tip of the triangle. Tall, thick, dressed in thick plate steel that shrugged off missiles and glancing sword strikes with ease, swinging a dark smoky steel greatsword longer than most men were tall. His skill was unmatched, by his allies, by his foes, a pile of corpses littered the ground in front of him.

Vilkas turned the heavy mace of a wild Breton man and deftly twisted the blade of his great sword to put the edge against the over extended man's neck and drug the disturbingly sharp edge across the soft flesh. The Skyforge Steel greatsword cleaved into a wooden shield, severing the hand holding it. The Nord drew the long blade back and thrust it into the man's chest through his heart.

Letting the corpse drop, the lifelong Companion caught a vicious Warhammer strike with the blunted forehandle of the sword and turned it down into the ground, using a powerful kick to gain separation and drag the bloody edge of the blade across the unyielding green breast plate of the orc he was now facing. The move was a setup, tempting the jade giant into going high with the Warhammer, which Vilkas simply spun around and chopped the hard edge of the greatsword right into the shoulder of his fellow warrior.

The sword swung around and disemboweled another Forsworn, the Breton woman dropping immediately, her screams drowned out by the blood pounding in the accomplished warrior's ears. Vilkas slapped aside another sword strike before beheading the offending savage and burying the blade in another Reach native.

Across the field to Vilkas' left, he noticed the second orc, sporting two wicked war axes, attack Froki, the tall Redguard. An unusual name for a native of Hammerfell, but to be fair, her brother's name was Erik, and he was just a much a Redguard as the very young woman.

The spear tip jabbed forward, but was slapped aside by the very skilled green hued warrior who immediately pressed his size and strength advantage to get within her reach and do his best to bowl her over. But Vilkas had taught the girl well, and she lowered her center of gravity and used the broad diamond shield to upend the large warrior and let him fall over her where she turned around to finish him off.

The orc would not be so easily defeated as he locked the hollow of his ax on the haft of the spear and pulled her down to his level where he could simply overpower her. A steel tipped arrow stuck in the bigger warrior's hamstring, giving him enough pause for Froki to slip out from his powerful grip, grab a short dagger, and slice his exposed throat. The tall woman blocked another waraxe with her shield and buried the dagger in the Forsworn's chest before picking up her spear and getting back to work.

On Vilkas' other side, the current Harbinger of the Companions, and quite the surprise considering where she was just a few years ago, Ria savagely hacked her way through a few small Breton fighters, blood spackling across her painted face. She had been a meek little girl three years ago, and had been a great admirer of the former Harbinger, but when news of his disappearance and probable death, something in her had changed. She was crafty and brutal, actually a very good approximation of her hero's fighting style, and had stepped into his shoes when it came to being an authoritative presence, and established herself quickly as a leader.

She wasn't the best warrior among them, even the ever cocky and confident Aela had to concede that honor to Vilkas, but she was the right choice to lead them into a new era that the old Harbinger had started them on.

She was still fairly skilled, however, and she proved it as she baited the third orc, mirroring her sword and shield set, into overreaching on a thrust and plunging her razor sharp blade in past his collarbone and down through the soft tissue of the neck into the chest cavity.

With the heavily armored, and truly the only skilled warriors, the battle went from defensive to offensive for the Companions as they rolled through the Forsworn with superior skill, weaponry, and armor. The Breton's were dangerous to normal soldiers, with their savagery and speed, but for highly trained warriors, they were far too lacking to make a difference.

Vilkas cleaved through the light chainmail beneath the dark cloaks worn by the last Forsworn on the field and nearly bisected the poor fool who though he might have had a chance against arguably the most skilled swordsman in all of Skyrim.

"Is that the last one?" Froki asked, a little out of breath as she pulled her spear from the corpse of a larger Breton man.

Ria was cleaning off her sword on the unstained portion of a Forsworn's cloak, "Aye, that should be the last raiding party. They're likely to push to the north for supplies now, so gather what you can off the bodies, get some quick rest. We set off in two hours."

The Imperial archer, Decius, had finally made his way down from the stone tower, likely looking to refill his quiver, chose this moment to comment, "Well, if we're going to get going so soon, perhaps someone else can draw them in? I still can't feel my legs!"

Froki laughed at the shorter man's comments, "Aw! You need me to carry you little one?"

Decius looked up at the woman with a serious expression before breaking it with that charming smile and a quick wink, "Not too little where it counts, love. You'd know better than anyone!"

The dark skinned woman smiled back, "Maybe that's why I wanted to save your legs…"

"Alright," Vilkas stopped any frisky business before it could happen, "Calm down you two. No one here needs to see that."

The pair smirked at the veteran warrior but headed his words and got to work stripping what they could from the corpses.

Froki had shown up out of nowhere a year and a half ago, Decius in tow, looking anywhere for a brother that had stopped sending letters home. She was barely a woman when she had arrived, and Decius barely a man, but both had grown immensely since. Of course it helps that Vilkas had felt personally responsible for the girl, and the boy was a good lad and a hard worker.

Ultimately it all boiled down to Erik, the former Harbinger of the Companions, Shield Brother and as good as a blood brother to Vilkas, and Froki's brother that she was looking for. There was no chance the veteran Companion was going to spit on the memory of such a man by not giving his sister everything he had and more. After all, it was exactly what that great man had given Vilkas and his late brother Farkas.

So he had worked with her, starting her off with a sword, which she wasn't bad at, but held no true talent, before switching to longer weapons, and she quickly became prolific with the spear. She was strong, not nearly so much as her brother, but stronger than some men. So Eorlund had fashioned her a broad, thick, and hefty shield that could absorb even the heaviest of blows. In turn, that led to the light circled armor she wore to help her and her natural fluidity. She was practically a dancer out there on the battlefield, and thanks to her shield, she doesn't need the motion restricting plate armor to stave off blows.

Decius, on the other hand, was quick, and surprisingly strong considering his height, but his lack of reach made him a liability in a melee. That's why Aela took the time to show him the way around a longbow, allowing him to use his impressive strength and speed as a scout, tracking the enemy and picking them off one by one. Or, as they had used him just now, to draw the ire of an enemy raiding party and draw them to a defensive point where they could overcome superior numbers.

Both had become important pieces of the Companions, and it was fortunate that they were with them as an army of Forsworn and orcs laid siege to Whiterun, rather than cooped up inside the city walls with the rest of the Companions and unable to work actively against the aggressors.

"I don't get it," Ria said as she pulled a water skin off of a headless savage, "I've been in Skyrim for five years, and the Forsworn have never left the Reach… Why lay siege to Whiterun?"

"Why form an army? Why form an alliance with some of the orc strongholds… and for that matter, why are the strongholds going to war with Skyrim?" Vilkas added to her questions before tearing into a piece of salted venison after washing off the blood with the same water skin Ria had salvaged.

"I mean…" he continued, chewing on the tough, but savory meat, "The orcs were never treated well, but they were left alone. And the Jarl's always gave them a lot of respect, they're the best warriors in Skyrim! And these?"

The veteran Companion picked up the same dark cloak all of the Forsworn were wearing, "This isn't typical Forsworn battle dress. They prefer uncured animal hides and bleached bones. They haven't had access to proper steel since Ulfric cast them out of Markarth during the Great War."

"Maybe it has to do with the tattoo on their face?"

Ria and Vilkas looked over at Froki as she pushed the hood back on one of the corpses, revealing the image of a small dark blue tattoo in the shape of a mask of some sort. The elder warriors quickly checked other's, finding the same thing.

"Vilkas, you've been living in Skyrim your entire life," Ria said as she inspected the bodiless head of another savage, "Have you ever seen something like this?"

"Tattoo's? No, warpaint? Yes. This is unlike anything I have ever seen."

The Harbinger sighed, then took the water skin back from her subordinate and took a deep drink, "Get some rest… then we're headed north."

…

"Tracks are fresh," Decius concluded as he knelt over the muddy tundra, "Twelve at the most… all heavily armored…"

"Seems they aren't taking any more risks on their raiding parties disappearing," Ria noted as she kept her eyes on the horizon, looking for any signs of the raiding party on the horizon.

Vilkas was sitting on a rock as the Imperial pair looked at the tracks, both boots off and right foot between his hands as he massaged the appendage. Erik had always told him to get Eorlund to fashion more comfortable boots. That his feet were the most important part of a man, if you didn't have your feet, you didn't have anything.

"Should have fucking listened to him," he mumbled under his breath, a comment Froki immediately jumped on.

"Listened to who?"

Steel grey eyes jumped up to the tall, dark woman and gave her a sharp look, "You shouldn't eavesdrop on an old man. It's rude."

"I wasn't eavesdropping, and you aren't that old. Who were you talking about?"

The veteran Companion sighed before slipping the wool sock back over his bare foot and jamming it back in the worn out boot, "Your brother, Erik. Told me to get more comfortable boots for long marches. Never took his advice… Should have listened to him."

The young woman adopted a pensive look, like she wanted to ask him more, so Vilkas decided to give her permission.

"Did… did Erik have anyone?" the young woman asked, her pretty chocolate eyes filled with longing, "Did he have anyone that was special to him. He didn't die alone did he?"

Damn the man. Damn him for leaving such a sweet girl to look for him alone. Damn him for being such a great man that he would inspire her to leave her home and travel thousands of miles to find him. Damn him for making Vilkas care so much that even his little sister was automatically given the warrior's love and care. And damn him for leaving him so quickly after Farkas had…

"He had a great many friends, as men like him attract."

"Did he have a woman? Did he have what I have with Decius?"

Vilkas snorted, young love…

"You don't know what you have with Decius, neither does he," the veteran of more than just battle told her, "Neither of you is even twenty, and if you'll recall, you thought girls were better looking just a year ago."

Froki looked down, her dark skin growing a little darker as she blushed, "I was just trying to get a rise out of Vignar."

"And it worked!" the seasoned warrior laughed fondly at the memory of the oldest Companion nearly going slack at the thought of young Froki galivanting around with other girls. It wasn't uncommon, just typically a little more private.

"Listen here, though," he said when the pair had finished their laugh, "Erik lived a rich life, with many friends. He wasn't alone, and neither are you. The Companions will always be here for you, I will be here as long as I can, you've made friends here. You've built a life your brother would be proud of."

The girl, not necessarily pretty, but certainly not ugly, looked thoughtful at the praise lauded upon her by her mentor before looking back up to the two Imperials who apparently had decided on their course, "Looks like it's time to go again. Feel up for it old man?"

"Remember when I said I'd always have your back? I meant I'd be stabbing you in it!"

Froki laughed at the joke as Ria approached, "North, there's an old bandit encampment Whiterun soldiers had taken over years ago. If they're looking for food, that's where it would be."

"Aye, lass," Vilkas nodded, "I remember the place. Seemed like every time we cleared it out, it wasn't but a day and a new clan would move in."

The march was swift, the three younger members having the fresh legs that come with youth and the veteran's battle hardened and conditioned physique made quick work of the flat, albeit messy, terrain. Ria was a task master when it came to the march, but at least had the decency of living up to her own hellacious expectations, and soon the encampment was in sight, as was the twelve heavily armored foes and a literal pile of dead Whiterun guards.

"Bastards!" Froki growled as she pulled her shield from her back and spun the hard oak spear shaft in her right hand.

"Froki, point!" Ria barked as they picked up speed, trying to reach the orcs before they could withdraw behind the high wooden walls, "Form a line behind her, Vilkas next, then I'll go, Decius, draw your mace, your bow won't do us any good against these ones."

The short, stout man drew a bladed mace from his hip, grabbing the heavy and dangerous weapon with both hands as the four formed a single file line with the intent of splitting the deadly orcs in half.

"Women left, men right!" the Harbinger barked just before Froki's shield collided with the first jade giant's own barrier.

Long and powerful legs propelled the woman forward, aided by hefty weight of the strong Nord warrior right behind her, as orcs parted, a few already falling to deadly blade strikes as the four passed. Vilkas buried a dagger in a mean looking one's neck, Ria impaling another through the slats of her armor, and Decius laid one low with a powerful smack to the kneecap of a taller emerald berserker.

Soon Froki had her opponent pressed up against timber walls where she quickly and expertly snuck the razor edge of her spear underneath his shield and punched through the tough armor and impaled the green man's lungs and one of his hearts, effectively, and efficiently, killing him.

Vilkas turned, as did Decius, to his right, just like the two women turned to their right. The intention was to cut the dangerous and prickly bear that was the heavy orc infantry into quarters where pairs could use effective teamwork to easily dispatch a couple at a time without interference from the stranded and disoriented allies.

Unfortunately, not all plans work as the tribal people quickly fell into discipline and slowed their progress, using superior size, strength, and numbers to press the two teams back together. Each strike Vilkas launched was met by a sturdy shield or a well placed blade, but rarely did the seasoned warrior have to block a strike of theirs. In fact, all they seemed to be doing was pushing the four back towards the door of the encampment, and it wasn't long before the quartet were standing in a defensive posture as the nine orcs that had survived the initial encounter blocked the entryway.

"Commander want's these ones alive! Especially the girl!"

"And how do you intend to take us, cowards?" Ria spat back, vicious little bitch that she was, it was unlikely anyone could take her alive.

Vilkas felt the hairs on the back of his neck pricking straight out, a nervous feeling began to settle in his stomach, and a chill crept up and down his spine. All of that flew out the window as the iron door to the cave beneath the encampment made a thud as the latch on the other side was disengaged and the door slammed open.

The warcry of over two dozen Forsworn pierced the air as suddenly the four Companions found themselves surrounded.

"This is how, little bitch!" the lead orc bellowed.

Short for his kind, the jade warrior still stood nearly as tall as Vilkas and boasted arms thicker than tree trunks and likely just as strong, "Surrender and you won't be harmed, resist, and at least three of you will die! Please resist…"

Ria's face grew as dark as the black face paint she couldn't be found without before sending a wad of spit across the hard packed dirt of the encampments courtyard.

"Gladly!" she roared, "You'll find that your task is not an easy one!"

If anything, her boasting only bolstered the ranks of Bretons and Orsimer, their cries of bloodlust drowning out the sound of Vilkas' own thoughts.

Ria was a great Harbinger, and would have gone on to be one of the best, but she should have known when she was beaten. The elder of the four was all for a final glorious battle, but only if the certain doom couldn't be avoided. This Commander clearly wanted them for something, though why they placed such importance on Froki was a myster, and it served as their best chance to learn something about what was going on. Instead, now they were as good as dead, and Erik's little sister, only hours after Vilkas had told her she would always have him and the Companions, would be just as alone as she had feared her brother had been.

The fierce Forsworn and the bloodthirsty orcs filled the air with their rage, letting the world know what was about to happen, and the steely eyed man couldn't help but agree. Nirn, however, decided to voice its contrarianism as another roar filled the air, one that was familiar and bone chilling.

Timber walls exploded outwards as twelve feet of hard muscle and thick skin shot through the comparatively flimsy barrier, gargantuan club raised high, and blue eyes alight with fury. Four Bretons died on the giant's first swing, two on the next, and three were reduced in height by several feet by the third.

Forsworn managed to find their bows, little good that they would be, and managed to successfully annoy the thick skinned titan as it continued to kill with impunity, though the small humans at least managed to avoid being killed three at a time.

The brutality, and sheer serendipity of the attack almost blinded the Companions to the fact that they were still outnumbered by more than five to one and were surrounded on all sides. Or at least they were, but something seemed to have captured the attention of the Orsimer that had been keeping them trapped. Vilkas failed to get a look as he was quickly occupied with vicious attacks coming from all sides.

Skyforge steel tasted blood, as it had far too much lately, as another Breton woman fell missing the majority of her left arm and upper torso. The supremely skilled bladesman twisted his hips and whipped the greatsword around to cut down another Forsworn savage, gouging out a ragged line across his chest.

Froki was using the superior reach of her spear to easily perforate the lightly armored Bretons, the smaller savages not even being able to scratch against her thick shield. At her back, Decius may not have had the reach of his lover, but had the same strength to throw into powerful blows delivered by his bladed mace, crushing heads and caving in chests. At Vilkas' back, Ria used her shield to hold the smaller humans at bay and her Skyforge steel sword to do the bloody work.

Vilkas was about to engage with yet another Forsworn, this time a lanky man with single waraxe, but was robbed of the opportunity when a blood drenched blade punched through the savage's chest towards him.

The body dropped revealing a bronze skinned man in winter leathers holding the blade. The steely eyed Nord supposed the man was handsome, though he was far from qualified to say. What he was qualified to judge, was this newcomer's bladesmanship. He was talented, and would likely step in and be the second best in the renowned warriors of the Companions. His speed was showcased as he ducked underneath a sloppy swipe and punished the offender with quick and lethal slash to the man's stomach that spilled his bowels onto the compacted dirt.

The reprieve allowed the Companion to take a look back and focus on the orcs and see what the quartet, possibly quintet with the newest addition, needed to do to survive the dangerous foes. It turned out they wouldn't have to do much. Only two still stood, the other seven lying on the ground, entire limbs hacked off, or heads split, or chests crushed, all the evidence of an incredibly powerful foe. Vilkas didn't have to look far to find who had done it.

Tall as a giant, clad from head to toe in black ebony armor studded with the horns and claws of vicious beasts, swinging an ax most men, Vilkas included, would have difficulty wielding in both hands with just one.

 _Erik…_

With unnatural speed that was so familiar to the veteran Companion, the giant half-Nord brought Wuuthrad down onto the shield of one of the remaining orcs, lodging the blade deep within the mineral barrier, and ripped it out of the jade warrior's hands. The truly massive battleax quickly redirected back towards the orc who only just had enough time and skill to deflect the weapon. Unfortunately for the emerald man, while there were few who could match Erik's skill, and even fewer that could match his athleticism, there were none, none, that could match both. The orc found that out the hard way as the ebony clad titan simply flipped his wrist and brought Wuuthrad back around in a figure eight as though the giant weapon weighed almost nothing and split open the jade warrior's chest.

The second orc tried to take the offensive, but his warhammer was met by a broad ebony shield which threw the heavy weapon to the side, overextending him and leaving the berserker open to be grabbed and thrown off of his feet. The orc managed to get his hammer up in time to meet Wuuthrad, useless as the gesture was. The razor edge of the ebony battleax cut through the wooden handle and clean through his shoulder, the useless limb dropping and the air filling with the orc's screams.

Erik silenced them quickly, plunging the spike of Wuuthrad into the jade man's neck. He was as dominant as Vilkas remembered, using an unusual combination of size, strength, speed, and pure talent. The man was efficient, not in the way he killed, but in the way he controlled a fight, by brutalizing his enemies early he broke the rest's will, the rest of the battle was a simple matter of overpowering scared and broken opponents.

The steel eyed man's attention was drawn, temporarily, from his dead friend come back to life by the body of a Forsworn dropping to the ground, the giant finally finishing his toil with the bulk of the savages.

The twelve foot human analog looked no worse for wear. Only a handful of arrows actually found purchase in its thick hide, and its feet and hands were caked in blood that certainly didn't not belong to it. The giant didn't seem hostile anymore, though Vilkas had to admit, this was closer than he'd ever been to one that he wasn't hired to kill.

"We have a camp two miles north of here," his attention was drawn back to his old, and surprisingly not dead, friend, "Just inside the border of the trees."

He made pointed eye contact through the pitch black eyeholes on the expressionless mask he wore on his spike crested helmet with both Vilkas and Ria. Though by far his intent was on young Froki. The Nord was somewhat surprised he was able to recognize her, assuming that was why he was staring so hard at her.

"You have questions," Erik continued, "I'll answer them there."

…

Vilkas had never seen so many giants in one place before. Dozens stood around scattered fires, males, females, even young giants, which were almost unheard of, leading to old tales of giants simply popping into existence. Pure folly of course, but the typical traveler likely only ever had the opportunity to see the roaming males.

A good thing that they only ever saw the men of nomadic tribes, for the women were more dangerous. There was a reason they defended the tribe camps and the men herded the mammoths, and as one long haired female gave him a warning rumble as she gripped the handle of large stone dagger, the veteran warrior averted his eyes and thanked his stars that he was here as a friend.

Instead he focused on a different kind of giant, this one clad in ebony as opposed to hides, and wielded a large ax and shield rather than a giant club or large stone dagger.

Erik was headed towards a great number of smaller fires, where several hundred men and women camped. Various uniforms graced the soldiers there. Many belonged to stranded Whiterun guards, there were others still from neighboring holds who had come to aid the center of trade for Skyrim. There were even members of the Dawnguard there. Where they had been, or where they had miraculously come from, Vilkas had no idea, but it was good to see that Skyrim hadn't abandoned the home of the Companions and the heart of the North.

"Is this all the hope left for Whiterun?" Froki whispered to her mentor, "Three dozen giants and a few hundred guardsmen? This won't be enough to take on ten thousand Forsworn."

"Not conventionally, no," he replied calmly.

She was right, but also wrong. They didn't need to win conventionally, not with the Dragonborn on their side.

Aforementioned Dragonborn was flanked by the bronze skinned man who seemed to be a cross between a Redguard and a Breton, the two were talking quietly, appearing to be disagreeing with one another about something.

"I could have taken those things," the bronze man said, to which Erik scoffed.

"You're so sure you could have fought nine orcs at once?" the much, much larger man asked, "They might not have the title of knight, but I assure you, they are far more dangerous than your typical Westerosi knight."

"You killed them quite easily," the small man pointed out as the party weaved around a campfire that had a few men from Hjaalmarch that must have followed the Forsworn army across the tundra, likely trying to ascertain what they were doing. There was no mystery anymore.

"I have better reach with my ax than you do with your sword," Erik pointed out, "and the strength to not be overwhelmed by theirs."

"Bah," he argued back, "Speed kills strength!"

"One on one, perhaps. Against nine?"

The two fell silent, though Vilkas was absorbing everything he could. The two were familiar, not friendly, but they definitely knew each other well enough. There was an uneasiness between the two, like the tension between a sabre cat and a bear when neither one wants a fight, but are also unhappy with the other's presence.

The pair lead the quartet of Companions deeper into the camp, towards a makeshift shelter where three women stood. One Vilkas recognized immediately as Brelyna, a dunmer mage of exceptional power and skill, and a woman who had once been more than a little infatuated with Farkas. The Companion and the Scholar used to be close friends, but when his brother had died, both had been far too full of grief, and had fled to places of comfort.

The second one was a petite Imperial blonde woman, incredibly beautiful with smooth skin, glossy hair, hourglass figure, pert breasts, and a rear end that had to feel good under a man's hand. And all of this was visible even under heavy winter clothes. The womanizer in Vilkas was definitely interested… until he got a closer look at the third woman.

Now that was a woman noble bearing, even the thick clothing she wore couldn't hide that regal bearing, and the majestic form of her body. Long, slender, and shapely, just how the Nord liked his women. Silky black hair, sharp dark eyes, and lovely bronze skin that he would give anything just to run his hands over. If there wasn't a city under siege, he would have been tempted to try something. As it was, the Companion was very much focused on Erik, and the explanation that the Dragonborn owed them.

The huge man rounded a table set up in the center of the shelter, complete with a map of Whiterun, and immediately removed the crested helmet. Vilkas watched Froki carefully for any flicker of recognition as Erik's beaten visage came into view. There was something, clearly she found him familiar, but obviously didn't recognize him. No surprise, he was barely a man when he had arrived in Skyrim, and a scrawny one at that.

Two pairs of chocolate eyes held each other for a long time, both Ria and Vilkas letting it be as sister unknowingly stared down brother. Clearly, Brelyna and the three strangers were confused as to what was going on, but also chose to remain silent. Finally, Erik broke the silence.

"You don't recognize me, do you?"

The young woman blinked, "Should I? Who are you?"

The large man looked heartbroken at the question before he answered it, "It's me, Froki…"

The blonde woman gasped.

"It's Erik."

Froki blinked, opened her mouth, blinked again, then finally said, "Prove it…"

The brother immediately began unstrapping his left gauntlet, slipping the armor off of his forearm and rolling up the sleeve to leave the skin bare, "Do you remember when you were eight, and you wanted to try giving me a tattoo?"

He rolled his forearm to reveal a messy blotch on the dark skin. One would assume it was supposed to say something, but the ink was poorly set and all that remained was a blob of black ink.

"You pushed the needle too deep, so I bled and it ruined the ink before it could set."

The table flew as Froki tossed it aside in an effort to get to her elder brother, not caring in the slightest for the sharp horns and claws that had to be digging into her sides as she embraced him in a crushing hug.

"We all thought you dead."

Erik returned the hug, clapping his little sister on the back and embracing her tightly, "Not dead, just very far away. If my letters would have reached, I would have sent some."

The bronze skinned man had had enough apparently, as he chose that moment to interrupt, "Who are these people?"

"This is my sister," the Dragonborn answered, not bothered at all by the disrespectful tone used by the smaller man, instead simply smiling as he held the tall woman even closer, "The tall one is Vilkas. The woman with the war paint is Ria. I don't know the name of the short one."

"Decius… sir," the poor man was just brought face to face with the first family member of his lover, and found out it was a man straight out of legend who was, literally, larger than life.

"Who are you?" Vilkas asked bluntly, as unlike his old friend, he _did_ take exception to the little man's tone.

The handsome man seemed to puff up a bit before answering, "I am Prince Oberyn of House Nymeros Martell, known across Westeros as the Red Viper…"

"Abe," Vilkas interrupted, "Got it."

That didn't sit well with him, but it got a chuckle out of the gorgeous black haired beauty next to him, "I'll have to remember that for when you're being impetuous brother."

She focused those sharp, fierce eyes on him, piercing him to his sould, "I'm Elia Martell. I could go on about the fact I'm a Princess of Dorne, but considering Dorne is in another world, I don't think it would mean much to you."

Vilkas took extra care to pour on a little charm. Not too much, just enough to show he knew how to handle a lady of high standard, "A pleasure regardless, Princess."

Elia smiled slyly, and the Companion felt fire in his body at the sheer sight of it, "You're more handsome in real life."

He cocked an eyebrow, clearly looking for an explanation, of which he got none as Erik and Froki finally broke their hug. The big man turned to the blonde woman who was smiling gently at the pair. It seemed odd that she would know the significance of Froki's name, and even stranger the way she seemed to beam at the young woman.

"And this," the big man said, rounding out introductions, "Is Lynesse Stormcrown. My wife."

The smaller woman stepped forward towards what was apparently her sister by law, "It's good to finally meet you Froki. Erik won't shut up about how proud he is of his sisters. I only wish Naasa could have been here so I could have met her."

The larger woman looked between Lynesse and Erik quickly before asking, "You're married? To her?"

The blonde woman's smile fell a little and uncertainty crawled into her blue eyes as Erik nodded.

Froki broke out a large smile, "How'd you ever manage that, brother? I assume you must have worn a mask to hide that ugly face during the entire courtship!"

The grin on Lynesse's face returned in full force as she continued the joke, "He took it off after the wedding. I was very surprised, but unfortunately it was too late to do anything about it."

The two women shared a quick embrace as Erik moved on to greet Ria with a crushing hug.

"Did he keep you locked up?" the sister asked, chuckling.

"Pregnant actually," the wife shared, "It only took three pregnancies, then I promised not to run. Still might make an oathbreaker of me yet."

Froki's jaw dropped, as did Vilkas'. The thought of Erik having children was a chilling one. Wasn't one seven foot juggernaut bad enough? Now there were three more out there somewhere, just waiting to grow up, and one quick look at the mother was enough to tell someone that they'd all at the very least be handsome if not outright beautiful.

This was going to be interesting.

…

"Legate! Legate!"

Vilkas looked up at the man wearing the uniform of a man from the Legion running through the camp, "You're still a Legate?"

Erik shrugged, "A Legion scouting party showed up a few days ago, before we even had all the giants together. They called me Legate, and I didn't argue. We need their help."

The man clad in studded Imperial leathers stopped short of their fire where they sat, huffing a little as he likely just run from a great distance to bring the Dragonborn some news, "Brunwulf Free Winter's men have been spotted. The Jarl himself is not with them, but they are led by his Housecarl Calder Shieldbearer."

"Numbers?"

A few more pants before the scout answered, "Three hundred at the most. But all were well equipped."

The big man nodded and sent the scout on his way, "Likely all the Jarl could throw together in the time frame I sent. Still, we're lucky to have received any reinforcements."

"How many does that get us to?"

"I don't know an exact count, but likely a shade under a thousand infantry," his voice was distant as he recalled all of the assets, "forty four giants are willing to join the fighting, and they've constructed battle armor for sixteen mammoths."

The Companion grimaced slightly, "There's still ten thousand Forsworn and orcs down there. Combined with siege machines, armed with good, high quality steel weapons. I don't doubt you can defeat them, I'm just worried about whether we'll survive to see you do it."

Erik looked to the rest of the group before grabbing the attention of a Whiterun guardsman who had been standing nearby, "Go get the leaders of each group, and find Calder Shieldbearer when he gets here. Bring them all here."

"I have to ask," Vilkas started, "How'd you get the giants to agree to come together and fight as one?"

The larger man looked at him with a small smile before saying, "I have no idea. I did all the talking, but Lynesse was the one shoving words in my mouth, so you'd have to ask her to really understand what's going on."

"Married a diplomat, eh?"

He nodded, "A very good one at that. I've yet to even get close to winning an argument."

The two stepped up to the table that held the map of Whiterun and the surrounding countryside and carried it out into the open so some of the… larger denizens… could see it without having to tear the roof off of the shelter.

"What about you," Erik asked as he began placing pieces on the map in correspondence to the last report of enemy forces to filter through the war camp, "Ever find anyone special?"

The veteran shook his head, "Nah… been too busy taking care of young Froki and Decius."

"I appreciate that, by the way," the warrior replied with a pointed look to make sure Vilkas understood just how much he really did appreciate it, "But I have to ask. Who is that Decius kid?"

The Companion grimaced at the question even as he heard other's approaching the table, "He and your sister… they're… well…"

Erik's face grew stony, "Really…"

"He's not a bad kid, he's really nice, and he treats Froki with all the respect in the world!"

"I sense a but…"

Vilkas paused for a second before adding his 'but', "He can be a little… wishy washy."

The protective older brother looked like he wanted to continue, but at that moment, a thunderous footfall signaled the entrance of the leader of the giants. A truly massive female that stood well over fifteen feet tall and carried a large stone ax that looked like it weighed more than a horse. Blue eyes glowed powerfully and muscles rippled underneath thick hide as the massive redheaded human analog knelt down to join the meeting.

It went without saying that the rest of the attendees formed up opposite of her.

"Thank you all for coming," Erik said formally, though Vilkas noticed brief eye contact with Lynesse as she stood at the very back, observing from afar, "We're only waiting on one member who should be arriving…"

 _ **FWOOM!**_

"… Now."

The trees this close to the tundra were spread thin compared to the dense forests further north, but even so, it couldn't have been an easy fit as a great and terrible red dragon fell through the branches, planting its talons in the ground to break its fall, wind from its great wings nearly blowing out the fires, and would have scattered the map and the pieces to the ground had it not been for Erik coving it with a cloak before it could land.

Ruby scales glinted in the firelight of the waning day, and sapphire eyes coldly regarded all member of the meeting as snow white teeth as long as daggers shined dangerously.

" **Drem Yol Lohk… Dovahkiin… Los Nii Tiid?"**

" **Geh, Wuth Fahdon, Nii Los."**

…

War…

For all of his experience fighting, killing, battling against the odds. Vilkas had never fought in a war. Yet here he was. A thousand men, nearly fifty giants, a dozen mammoths, and a dragon at his back, ready to charge down into the teeth of ten thousand men, all armed to the teeth and thirsty for blood and death.

He couldn't deny that he was nervous as he stood in the ruins of a guard tower that had once defended the northern road out of Whiterun. He had fought in skirmishes, and there were far grander battles that have been fought throughout the history of the great tundra city, but the Companion had never fought in one.

Before him the horde was laid out, just a small portion, but it was growing rapidly as the attackers left the other areas of the city to meet the comparatively tiny force to the north. Even from here he could see things that worried him.

Armored trolls with bladed fists, lines of heavy infantry that could break their own, scorpions that were once pointed at Whiterun's walls now pointed at them, and fire distributed amongst archers that could whip the mammoths into a frenzy that would do more harm to the allies than the enemies.

But he could also see hope. It stood in front of him, approximately twenty feet out. Hope was taller than any other man he had ever met, decked in black armor, with a black cloak falling from his shoulders that beheld a white dragon. Hope raised a mighty ax high into the air, and let out a roar that shook the earth itself.

 **Happy Turkey day people in North America! And to everyone else, happy Thorsday!**


	12. Chapter 12

**Seriously? You guys… I introduce Erik's sister and I get nothing from any of you? Was it a bad put it by me? Was it too much, not enough about it, just a plain dumb idea?**

 **Old Man Yells At Cloud!**

 **Anyway, possibly last chapter of Skyrim arch, possibly second to last, I might need another one to tie up all the immediate loose ends… we shall see. We shall see. I haven't written the chapter yet, that's why I don't know. I do know that once this story arch is done, I will need to work on the other two active stories on my account because I've got fans of those stories that don't give a crap about this one. You know how it is.**

 **Without any further ado, here is the twelfth chapter in this… exposition of medieval violence and lackluster character development.**

It was midnight, and cold. Both were perfect for Elia and Oberyn's mission that they were currently undertaking. The brainchild of her own experience with being within a besieged city and desire to do something to help other than just stand there and watch as others laid their lives down so that she could go back and see Rhaenys.

The reason the conditions were perfect, had to do with the parameters of their mission. The two Dornish were going to sneak into Whiterun, right past ten thousand bloodthirsty and anxious savages. The dark night helped conceal their approach into the camp, and the cold allowed them to conceal their skin in thick black cloaks so that none might see that they weren't pale skinned Breton's.

The two were still just beyond the borders of the camp, looking for the most opportune spots to cut through, their aiming point being a small drainage pipe that was covered by tall grass that covered much of the city. According to Erik, it could barely fit one small adult and that even some of the children of Whiterun had difficulty going in and out of it. Fortunately for the army that would be moving to relieve the siege tomorrow, Elia was barely larger than a child, and certainly classified as a small adult.

"Are you sure about this, sister?"

The Princess looked over to the Prince, only his eyes exposed, as much due to the bitter cold of what the Nords had called a warm summer night as it did with the desire to remain disguised.

"Erik doesn't have the men to win outright, this is the only way to get more."

Oberyn leaned in closer, "But why does it have to be you? This cold isn't good for you, and now you're volunteering to climb through a pipe filled with freezing water and filth."

He wasn't wrong, though whatever the mages of Winterhold had done had left her far more healthy and hale than she had been since she was a little girl. It was wearing off though, her lungs felt as though they were constantly filled with water, and her nose was filled with bile that would have made her vomit, if she had the appetite to consume anything capable of being vomited. Still, it had to be done, and the Princess was the only person small enough to actually do it.

When told as much, the fearsome Red Viper looked around quickly to see if anyone was looking before leaning in and embracing her tightly, "I'm very proud of you, big sister."

Elia returned the hug, "I love you too little brother."

"What? Not proud of me?"

She snorted a laugh, "Not even a little, now let's go. I see a relatively clear path by that tent."

That tent, the only one in the camp of savages, was flanked by a pair of torches, but the traffic of Forsworn or orcs was virtually non existant. Only a pair of burly jade armored beasts stood nearby and a small clutch of the smaller savage men standing around a fire.

The pair moved in, huddled together and ducking behind a wooden barricade meant to stop a cavalry charge, though horses on the muddy tundra would be as foolish a plan as any, and slipped into traffic unnoticed, Oberyn being the experienced hand guiding hers through the camp.

The Princess kept her ears perked for any pertinent information. Mayhaps one would say something that tipped their hand towards a reserve force, or their timetable for taking the city. Anything that Oberyn could bring back to Erik and Elia could bring to this Jarl Balgruuf.

The group they had ducked in behind to follow just slightly behind was making its way towards the group of Forsworn standing by the campfire.

"When do we get to kill some fucking Nords?" one of the men at the front asked as they too held their cloaks tightly around them, "Waiting around in all this flat grassland. Fucking wind never stops, every night is colder than Dagon's balls, and everything's fucking wet."

"Quit your bitching," a smaller woman responded harshly, "We'll kill fucking Nords, when the Commander says we can kill some fucking Nords!"

"Commander…" the third seemed to taste the word in his mouth, "Who's the General then?"

Both Dornish perked up at that, as did the woman who had rebuked the first man, "What do you mean?"

"Commanders lead, right?" the second man and third of the party started, "Generals strategize. Who's the General? Like Madanach was for us in the Reach before the Dragonborn murdered him."

"Well," the first man started before looking back at the pair following the trio, Oberyn and Elia simply walking past and turning the corner and making it look like they were walking deeper into the camp, though in reality they simply stopped short once they all went back to hat they were talking about.

"I saw the Commander walk off once," the man continued in hushed tones, "No one knew where, but the direction he walked off in…"

His voice grew quieter and Elia had to strain to hear him, "I saw a _dragon_ land nearby!"

Prince and Princess began walking off immediately at the information. It was all hearsay and zero solid evidence, but with everything that had been revealed to the pair about this world, this felt like something anyone with ears should hear.

Elia felt a small hitch in her step as she and her brother continued towards the walls of Whiterun. The old stone walls looming tall on this end of the city, covering up part of the giant of the twin moons that were apparently the norm in this world. The night was quiet, as the savages keeping to the city of campfires kept their conversations muted, and certainly no one inside the city was likely to be making much noise.

It struck the Princess as odd that the Forsworn were able to camp right underneath the city walls as they had without any retribution from flaming arrows or scalding oil, or even just disease as the inhabitants would just throw their waste over the side and let the smell and sickness simply spread through the camp.

The answer to that question came when torch lights appeared at the top of the wall. Less than a second later, lightning arced from the ground up to the stone walls, scorching the stone and causing whomever was carrying the torches to duck back into the city. A slender, half naked woman stood where the lightning had come from, her hands smoking. Unlike the rest of her compatriots, clearly she chose not to wear the thick black cloaks, though like all the others did have the trademark tattoo on her cheek.

"At least they do us the favor of making themselves obvious," Oberyn whispered to her, "They're the most dangerous."

"HEAR ME!"

The roar stopped both Dornish cold, as it did everyone else, and drug their attention to the tent they had passed. Standing at the entrance of the tent was something that sent chills down their spines.

If Elia hadn't grown so familiar with Erik's armor, she would have thought he was here in the camp. A second glance showed all the differences, but there were more than enough similarities to give one pause.

Shorter than the Lord of Dragonstone, this Ebony Warrior still stood tall and broad, decked from head to toe in gilded and thick obsidian armor. The mask on his helm was the more traditional knight's shroud instead of the blank face that Erik's, and did not sport the vertical crest of spikes for intimidation. His broad diamond shield was blank as well, and rather than a massive axe strapped to his back, this warrior had a single obsidian handled sword hanging at his hip.

"HE'S CLOSE! TOMORROW HE'LL COME!" the man's voice wasn't natural, as it boomed from everywhere at once. In fact, Elia could hear it echoing from other areas in the camp, "TOMORROW YOU WILL GET YOUR CHANCE TO KILL, AND TO SERVE!"

"Here we do toil," the sound wasn't supernaturally powerful, but it sent chills that had nothing to do with the weather right through the Princess, "So that we might remember."

It was all the members of the camp. The Forsworn, the orcs, the mages, all of them.

"By night we reclaim… What by day was stolen…"

Everyone seemed to snap out of it, making the two people who weren't caught up in the trance stick out. Fortunately the only person who seemed to be 'sober' enough to take notice had already ducked back into the tent.

Oberyn looked down at her quickly, "We need to do this, now!"

The drainage pipe was exactly where Vilkas had told them it was. Perfectly hidden, except for the flowers budding directly on top of it. Three boards were laid across it, likely to keep animals from crawling in, but another obstacle for them to cross.

Oberyn looked around quickly, noticing that the camp was a little more busy in this section than it was when they first walked in. they wouldn't be able to do this without being seen, or at least without being suspicious while doing it.

"Sorry about this…"

Elia looked at him in confusion right as his fist struck her in the stomach. Softly, but more than enough to double her over right next to the drain and elicit a cry of pain.

"I knew you were hiding my lucky knife!" Oberyn yelled as a pair of orcs looked over from where they were. One laughing a little at the sight of two humans getting into a fight, "You bitch I'll beat your fucking brains out!"

"Make it quick!" the other orc shouted out, "We're trying to get some sleep out here!"

Elia saw a knife next to her on the ground as Oberyn pushed down on her again and whispered, "Pry the boards off while I hit you!"

One soft punch landed on her back, still more than enough to elicit a small cry from the Princess. Nevertheless, she managed to get the first board off using the knife. The nails were old and rusty, and snapped off easily.

The second was a little harder, and elicited a greater cry, she was barely able to get the next board off. There was enough exposed that she might be able to fit through. The third blow was the hardest one yet as she dropped the knife. Oberyn leaned over and grabbed it, giving her a small kick while whispering.

"Sorry," then he yelled loud enough for all to hear, "There it is! You fucking cunt!"

Then he stabbed the blade into the ground, his hunched frame covering both her and the pipe, "Go, now!"

Elia sent one heated glare at her younger brother before grabbing both ends of the pipe and hauling herself in above the third board, losing the cloak on her way in. There were some muffled voices behind her, but she couldn't focus on that right now.

One sniff and she found out she probably shouldn't focus on whatever it was that she was crawling through. It definitely didn't feel good against her bare hands as she shuffled her way through, and judging by the dim light coming from up ahead, she had quite a ways to crawl before she would get there as well.

By now her gagging was undoubtedly alerting anyone who'd care to listen. Fortunately, the smell was likely to keep anyone on the outside away, and anyone on the inside would technically be on her side. Though, now that she thought about it, they wouldn't know that.

That thought came a second too late, however, as she finally reached the dim light, and a hand reached down and hauled her out. The torch light of the party that had snatched her up illuminated the group, particularly the individual who was getting right in her face.

Red hair, fierce green eyes, and war paint crossing her face.

"Who are you?"

…

The sun was warm, though he couldn't feel it through his armor. The heat he felt were coming from his own body as it propelled three hundred pounds of muscle and a hundred pounds in armor down a cobblestone road. It came from the thousand men at his back, charging through the tundra, from the rampaging giants, the riled up mammoths, the righteously furious men and women of Skyrim. It came from the ten thousand strong force that was surging forward to meet him, from their savage hate and wild bloodlust.

But most of all, it came from the stream of fire that came from the sky and roasted the front lines of that savage host.

Erik watched as Odahviing passed by overhead, smoke trailing from his gaping jaws as the Forsworn charge was halted. A cry rose up behind him as the ancient demi god flew past and the savages began to fall back to the walls. So far, the plan was holding up. But this was the easy part.

Heavy orcs moved to the front, shoving the light and smaller Forsworn behind them to present a hard shell for the force of men, giants, and beasts to smash against. Even at this distance, the Dragonborn could see bows being pulled out and arrows being knocked. Blades pointed outwards and shields formed a strong thick wall.

Arrows filled the sky, but already the mismatched army of guardsmen and giants was moving too quickly, and the savages were too poorly trained to effectively launch a coordinated volley as most landed behind the compact force.

The ground between the two armies was being eaten up quickly. The man at the front could just make out the whites of his enemies' eyes. Wuuthrad rose high as his shield pushed up front, his vision blurred with each step, and a bead of sweat ran down his nose.

BOOM!

Erik collided with the lead orc, the weight of a thousand men behind him helping the half Nord to bowl over the unfortunate jade warrior.

Wuuthrad fell and took a crimson bath as it easily powered its way through the lightly armored Breton who had tried to stop it. The diamond shield absorbed a blow as the ebon clad warrior reversed the direction of his mighty ax to hamstring the frontline orc to his right, letting a warrior of the Eastmarch thrust a short spear into the uncovered face of the emerald fighter.

Dimly, out of the corner of his eye, Erik was able to see the first giant hit the front line, one swipe of her ten foot ax sending multiple people flying. A male giant stepped up next to her, slamming his club down into the ground, undoubtedly flattening several more savages.

"STAY CLOSE!" the Dragonborn bellowed over the noise of the battle, "PUSH FORWARD! TO THE WALL!"

Ysgramor's ax shattered a green sword and the obsidian shield knocked the wielder to the ground where a member of the Dawnguard pushed a sword through its neck. Erik spun the weapon and punched the ebony blade deep into the chest of a small Breton man. Blocking two blows from another orc, the large man ripped Wuuthrad out and swung it around, blood trailing through the air, before burying it in the jade warrior's neck.

A pair of orcs moved up to take on the ebon clad titan, but were crushed by a boulder before they had their chance. The giant responsible let out a bellowing war cry that dominated the noise of battle before crushing another man underfoot.

"PUSH!" he screamed again as he slew another Breton, "PUSH FOR YOUR FUCKING LIVES!"

The pressure at his back increased, the warriors of Skyrim heading his words as they pushed. Death shrouded his senses as more and more corpses piled up. Some were allies, most belonged to the Forsworn, but as the battle raged, so did the dragon inside of Erik.

Wuuthrad swung with increasing ferocity, spilling hot blood and cleaving through steel like butter. Sweat was running freely underneath his obsidian armor, but the heat didn't bother him, it fueled him as he disemboweled one man, then crushed another. Any who chose to attack him more often than not found that their first strike was their last.

One orc ran at him but was snatched up by a massive hand. The five fingered paw twice the size of most men's heads squeezed and popped the jade man like an overripe fruit.

One of the Forsworn came spinning two swords, Wuuthrad relieved him of his arms and a Skyforge steel speartip relieved him of his ability to be alive soon after.

Erik smashed apart the shield of a particularly burly Breton, who was quickly decapitated by the skillful movements of a smoky grey greatsword.

Powerful legs churned to propel the massive man through the still breathing corpses, the four Companions right behind him taking extra care to rectify that mistake as he continued to batter his way towards his objective.

Ferocity continued to build as he finally grew weary of the burden of a shield and threw the point of the diamond shaped barrier into the chest of a taller savage. Wuuthrad gripped in both hands he was better able to rain down carnage. His allies were fortunately still weary enough to keep their distance as reckless abandon grew in tandem with his rage.

One man was nearly cleaved cleanly in two at the waist by a swing. Another was hooked by the pointed end and flung around like a rag doll as Erik put more and more strength and hate into every swing.

There was noise from the battlefield, but it was shut out. There were the screams of the dying, both friend and foe, but the Dragonborn could hear neither call out. There was the sound of his own heart, pounding in his ears as it worked double time to keep up with his outrageous demand, but again, there was silence on that front.

All he could hear was a dragon roar. One that no one else could hear. His vision filled with bright, golden flames. His nose could smell nothing but the stench of charred flesh and molten steel. His mouth was awash in the blood of countless victims.

Wuuthrad cut through flesh again and again, gaining more and more power as it did, granting that power to its wielder as though he fed off the blood of others. The ebony armor ran crimson, matching the muddy tundra beneath them.

Suddenly, and shockingly to Erik, metal struck stone as he stood face to face with the walls of Whiterun. The mighty ax of Ysgramor had obliterated the piece of stone that it had collided with, but the wall was no worse for wear.

The Dragonborn spun on his heel to see the faces of his allies and friends. Some looked to him in awe, others in fear. Vilkas looked at him wearily, as though he was giving a dangerous beast its distance, Oberyn looked curious, but what sobered the elder brother, was the look of heartbreak in his sister's eyes as she saw the wild and bloodthirsty nature of her brother.

That was a conversation for a different time, however, there were still many more Forsworn on the battlefield, and they had only dealt a small blow to their vastly superior numbers.

"TO THE WALL! SQUARE PHALANX! SHIELDS ON THE OUTSIDE! SPEARS INSIDE!"

A quick, and loose, headcount put their current forces at around seven hundred and fifty men, not including the giants and their mammoths, who were already busy on phase three of the plan. Hopefully Elia got through. And hopefully the Jarl listened.

The warriors of Skyrim were a dangerous bunch, well trained and disciplined as most had either served in the Legion or Stormcloaks in the Rebellion. The two may not have liked each other much, but both sides would gladly cooperate in the effort to kill Forsworn. As a result, a three tiered phalanx formed along the wall, spreading out methodically, pushing the savages back away from Whiterun and towards the open tundra.

Clapping Froki on the shoulder as she continued to look at him with disappointment and heartbreak in her eyes, Erik pushed past the tiers of soldiers. The Forsworn were backing off, apparently not sure how to handle the pointy beast that had punched right through and backed themselves up against a seemingly impenetrable wall.

When he finally reached the front of the phalanx, the savage host had given them nearly a hundred feet of room. Good, still close enough to hear him.

" **Dar Los Fin Sul Do Hin Dez!** " his voice boomed like a thunderclap. The human cretons might not have understood what he was saying but they recoiled from the words all the same as he continued.

" **Daar Hul Si Haalvut Faaz, Faas, Ahrk Dinok!** "

A ruby flash swooped down again, fire streaming out through gleaming teeth and roasting the rear ranks of the host. Quick arrows forced Odahviing back into the sky, but that did little to help them from the second threat.

 _ **FUS… RO DAH!**_

Mud flew into the air, peeled off the frost line a few feet below like sand in the face of a stiff wind, though this was no wind, as the orcs and Bretons standing just a hundred feet away discovered when the wave of blue energy reached them.

The massive wave of energy struck its first victim. Pulverizing the poor fool, turning battle hardened flesh into paste. He wasn't the only one to experience the full power of the Shout, as men and women and orcs were flung into the air with ease. Some were buried underneath the upturned earth as it fell back to the ground, some where disintegrated under the sheer force, and others still died as they were flung great distances, dropping to the grasslands with a dull thud of their bodies and sharp crunch of their bones.

Unfortunately, the Forsworn realized their mistake, and giving the Dragonborn space to Shout was a mortal one, and the savages rushed back in.

"HOLD THE LINE!" Erik bellowed as the enemies approached, flipping the script from just a few minutes ago, " **Ofan Niin Nid! Nunon Dinok!** "

He was losing control over his speech as the tongue that had become more native than the Common of Tamriel slipped out more and more often, but as the men and women around him settled their stances, holding their shields high, swords poking up from underneath, and spears pointed straight out from over the top, it seemed they understood his intent just fine. The first tier was a porcupine of steel and oak, and like any wolf who tried to devour a porcupine, these Forsworn would end up with a bloody mouth.

Two hands squeezed down onto the leather bound haft of Wuuthrad, and Erik's will clamped down on his rage. He could be blindly ferocious attacking, but he couldn't afford to do that in a defensive battle, despite the fact he had put himself on an island apart from the front line of his own allies.

As his vision narrowed he was dimly aware of Froki having pushed herself in line with the front, a small spike of worry invading his cool demeanor in the face of the charging horde. She was calling for him, likely asking him to get into line with the rest of them. That he needed the protection of the shield wall like the rest.

She was wrong…

 _ **SU… GRAH DUN!**_

His movements were blinding, even to him. Before they could even hear his Shout, three Forsworn were dead. Even the most highly skilled warriors amongst the horde couldn't even raise their shield, or move their weapon to block, before Wuuthrad was splitting them in two, or decapitating them, or crushing their bodies.

More and more fell before him, his hands and weapon a literal blur as they took life after life. Blood didn't even have time to spill to the ground before the next fountain was opening up, leaving a fine red mist to permeate the air around him, hazing his vision and crinkling his nose at the smell.

Finally, Wuuthrad hit naught but air and his limbs slowed to mere mortal measurements. A look around showed the uncertain faces of savage Bretons and contemptuous glares of orc warriors. The battle still raged as the horde was slowly pushing into the well formed shield wall of the Skyrim natives, numbers proving themselves superior on this field as their sheer weight was able to force them back. The first tier had already nearly been ground away, many men and women wearing the brightly colored heavy mail tunics were lying on the ground dead. The last few lines were holding, but were bleeding all the same.

Froki was holding up her end, a pile of corpses wearing light mail and dark cloaks or thick green armor and heavy weapons lay at her feet. The Skyforge steel speartip was nearly as badly stained as Wuuthrad and her broad shield bore the mark of a heavy battering, but the young woman stood strong. Powerful legs, a trademark of the children of Rayya Iron-Fist, stood fast and pushed back. It was simply unfortunate that the rest of her company were unable to hold on as well as her.

"FALL BACK! TO THE SECOND LINE!"

The line broke, though none turned their back, and moved quickly to the second line, Erik following them easily, as the Forsworn were still wary of him. that's when the Dragonborn heard something disturbing.

The crackle of a fire burned, but the large man couldn't see the source until he saw the result as five Nords were engulfed in a burst of flames.

"MAGES! MOVE QUICKLY! SHIELDS HIGH!"

Another fireball lashed out from the horde, this time striking a Nord's shield and washing over the wall of iron banded oak. A few still screamed out in pain as flames licked their skin through their armor, but the damage was mitigated.

Nonetheless, the improvised general of this impromptu army would need to find those mages, and dispatch them quickly. A single powerful battlemage could break infantry lines on their own, and required another skilled mage to counter. Brelyna was likely more than a match for the savage witches, but she was being held back for the final phase of the plan.

Another lance of fire lashed out, this time the response of the men was even better, though no amount of discipline was going to save all of them. The two Nords who fell to the ground, clutching their burning flesh, did not die in vain, however, as it finally allowed Erik to find the caster, a half naked Breton man wearing tattoos for his clothing and a deer skull for his helmet.

A large frame helped the Dragonborn push his way through the crowd, even as the Forsworn got over their fear of him and moved to attack. His sheer size and speed pushing through half hearted attempts to stop him. Though they wanted him dead, they mostly just wanted to kill, and there was far easier prey just a few feet away.

One lightly armored Breton stood in his way as the warrior bore down on his, so far, unwitting target. Erik didn't even bother to swing Wuuthrad, instead slapping him aside with the backside of his armored knuckles. With one hand he raised Ysgramor's ax with the intent to split the scrawny mage in two.

Lightning licked his armor and his muscles contracted violently, throwing his swing off and burying the massive head into the ground. It wasn't enough to throw the movement of his weight off, however, as his heavy armored form bowled over his target and tossed the small, tattooed Breton across the muddy field.

The sparking energy let him go as he crashed to the ground, giving him enough autonomic control to turn his head and see a feral looking savage woman, wearing raw animal hide strips to cover her breasts and waists. The half Nord wasn't sure what it was that made magic users such immodest dressers, but he was thankful for it as he grabbed a loose helmet and threw it into the witch's midsection.

The female mage doubled over at the impact, and gave the warrior much needed time to regain his feet, drawing Storm's Wrath as he did.

The roar of flames behind him caused Erik to whirl around, slashing the Skyforge Steel sword across his body and the male mage's hands, severing them from his body. The digits wouldn't be alone on the ground for long, as the Forsworn's head, locked in a silent scream, joined it on the ground.

A dull thud had the large man turning, both himself and his blade, using the angle of Storm's Wrath to deflect the giant icicle that had been flung at him. The Dragonborn twirled his sword and brought it down viciously, shattering the next frozen projectile. This time it was a taller woman, as barely clothed as the other mages, and just as vulnerable if one could get close.

Steel flashed again as he cut through yet another spear shaped shard of ice. With magic wielders, if was a key word, for most anyway.

 _ **WULD!**_

Before the tall Breton could blink, thirty two inches of Skyforge steel was stuck into her chest, ending her with all the efficiency one would expect of a man with nearly a decade of personal experience, and hundreds of thousands of years of absorbed memories, making corpses of living people.

Lightning arced along his armor again, playing havoc with the warrior's muscles, and annoying him greatly.

With an aggressive growl, Erik powered through the blinding lightshow, bringing Storm's Wrath around on a deadly, if erratic and erroneous slash. The steel did not meet flesh, but it did force the small woman to lean back and stop her magic, if only for a second.

A second was too long.

As the witch's body collapsed on the ground, the Dovahkiin looked around the battlefield. One of the Forsworn tried to keep his attention, but a quick punch stopped the savage as easily as swatting a fly. The second line was holding better than the first, aided by the numbers of the first line, but was failing all the same. Numbers proved too great as the feral horde pushed in, and in truth, Nords simply weren't a match for Orsimer when it came to heavy infantry. Though the jade colored tribal peoples weren't nearly as numerous as the pale skinned natives of Skyrim, their sheer strength and natural ferocity helped them overcome that, add in thousands of savage Forsworn, and it was a true testament to the discipline and martial prowess of the Skyrim soldiers that they were able to hold as they had.

 **BOOM!**

And luckily for them, they would have to hold no longer. The giants had done their job.

A huge section of Whiterun's walls collapsed, normally not a good thing for an army that would be trying to save it. Fortunately, Erik's was not the only army friendly to Whiterun on this field…

Fifteen hundred men and women, dressed in the yellow mail tunics of Whiterun were waiting on the other side, more than half waiting with bows drawn.

"INSIDE THE WALLS! **OFAN NID AAZ!** "

Erik's army turned and fled into the walls, the horde following closely. The army inside the walls were waiting, seemingly for nothing as they faced a prime opportunity to slow the advancing host and let their allies in, but that wasn't a part of the plan, their steel tipped arrows weren't meant to break their enemies will, that was _his_ job.

Ruby scales, leathery wings, and furious fire landed on the edge of the city walls, dispensing aforementioned furious fire with a murderous glee.

There might not be anything more terrifying to hear for a man, than the screeching roar of a dragon's violent tongue, and it certainly wasn't pleasant for the Forsworn who were roasting alive in the stream of stone melting fire. Likely it wasn't even comfortable for the Nords who weren't being directly burned by the blazing breath, the sheer heat pouring off the stream of death was likely enough to make even those standing behind the dragon sweat.

Erik, who had been running towards the wall, had to put his hand up and duck down as nearly seven hundred steel tipped missiles flew out after the fire ended, putting a dagger into the heart of the Forsworn horde. They were on the verge of losing their will to fight, and now was the time for the final piece of the plan.

The Dragonborn reached the hole in the wall, having had to wade through charred corpses to do so, and faced the army waiting on the slopes of what was once a wall. Soldiers of Skyrim, Giants of the Tundra, Dawnguard, Legionnaires, Companions, and even his sister.

It was good he reclaimed Wuuthrad, it likely looked much more impressive as he raised it to his allies…

" **ERIK!** " a voice boomed over the battlefield, cutting what was going to be a very momentous order off before he could even utter it, " **ERIK!** "

He knew that voice, and he knew where it was coming from. A cold sense of dread was washing over him as he turned to look at the man calling for him. The cold dread settled into the pit of his stomach as he finally saw him.

The Ebony Warrior.

" **You owe me, a life!** " his virtual twin seethed, " **I intend to collect yours!** "

"I gave you a life," Erik replied, his own voice beginning to quake, " **You simply refused to accept your own DEATH!** "

" **Enough! I outnumber you! Fight me!** " the Warrior tried to goad the Dragonborn, " **If you're not afraid!** "

" **I only fear that my dragon will kill you, before I get my chance to do the same!** "

The other ebon clad titan cocked his head, almost playfully, " **You brought a dragon? Too bad I didn't think of that… Oh wait!** "

A shadow covered the sun…

" **I DID!** "

An old, rust colored dragon slammed Erik to the ground, too quickly for anyone to react. The giant beast's scaly hide was ancient, and worn. Scales that had once shown with brilliance had dulled to the harsh elements. Leathery wings, once full and vibrant, were torn and veiny. Proud horns were chipped, and razor sharp teeth were missing from its maw. Like the Ebony Warrior, the Dragonborn recognized this new player.

"Paarthurnax…"

The ancient dovah did not reply, the old terror simply opened its mouth and twisted its tongue, ready to annihilate the puny mortal trapped underneath its talons. Perhaps age did affect dragons in a similar manner to how it affected men, for the rusty colored reptile was too slow, as a ruby flash slammed into him.

Erik felt the weight lift off of him and sighed, "He's going to be insufferable after this one…"

Both Dovah and Dovahkiin had far more to worry about, however. Truthfully, the Ebony Warrior was a more skilled warrior than Erik, but on this field, Paarthurnax was the most dangerous piece. The ancient dragon was second only to Alduin in power. Delphine and Esbern were right to fear him, and in truth, the half Nord feared him as well. No one knew how old the beast was, but Paarthurnax himself had once told Erik of the days before elves had learned to walk on two legs. Such longevity was not achieved by agelessness alone.

Odahviing was in over his head with Paarthurnax, and the Dragonborn was outmatched by the Ebony Warrior.

Standing to his feet, Erik spun Wuuthrad around, flinging mud and bodily fluids from the ebon blade. His opponent stood, sword and shield in hand, ready to face him in the slop. Both armies held watched their leaders square off, the ear splitting roars of the two dragons fighting nearly a million miles away. Odahviing had his job, now it was time for everyone else to do theirs.

" **Fah Un Zin! Fah Un Lahney!** "

The remaining six thousand Forsworn and the twenty one hundred Nords charged simultaneously, as did Erik and the Warrior.

Wuuthrad struck first, landing a booming blow on the diamond hard ebony shield of the Warrior, but had to move quickly to block the razor edge of the obsidian colored sword from finding the creases in the half Nord's armor and spilling his guts.

The Dragonborn put extra strength into the block, forcing his opponents sword out wide and using his larger frame to put a hard shoulder into the smaller man's chest. The Warrior was far too skilled for such a simple maneuver however, and used his shield to overextend Erik. But just as one was no novice, neither was the other as the Hammerfell native spun with his momentum and brought the bladed end of his mighty ax around, a lethal and perfectly executed strike that his opponent merely ducked under.

The man before Erik was unbelievably good. There was a reason he was unheard of. None survived their encounter, not until the Dragonborn had. The last time they had met, it was on the snowy slopes of a mountain pass, a bout of honorable combat. The Ebony Warrior had arranged it, looking for the ultimate test, he had heard of the legendary Dovahkiin and his countless exploits. It was there that Erik was treated to his first experience with a truly superior opponent, in every facet. Swordsmanship, strength, speed, even in his most unique ability, the Thu'um itself.

This was why he couldn't use a Shout. Erik's Thu'um might be more powerful, he was Dragonborn after all, but the Warrior knew how to use his better. Experience was on his side, not Erik's, but a sense of honor would keep both of them from using it.

The Dragonborn paid little attention to the light show going on around him. powerful magic was at work, but this time, it was to the benefit of the Skyrim natives. Brelyna had rode in on a red dragon, and now provided the edge the Nords needed to overcome the Forsworn's own mages. The dunmer was a powerful battle mage, capable of high level destruction spells, conjuring powerful atronachs that could rain elemental fury down upon her enemies, and strong wards that could protect both her, and her allies from harm.

All of her skills were at work as bright arcs of electricity lanced out and struck down the half naked savage witches, two towering frost golems stood tall alongside giants, absorbing blows meant for the titanic nomads and allowing them to decimate the Forsworn and orcs that dared stand before them, and rows of archers stood unmolested by enemy fire as steel tipped arrows rebounded off an invisible barrier only feet away from them.

Any semblance of frontline fighting had vanished. The muddy pit that was the tundra had turned into a sloppy melee in the middle. It was a no man's land, where discipline counted for nothing, and warrior's prowess decided who won, and who suffered a slow, painful death from trampling as falling to your back was as deadly as getting a sword through your heart.

The much more skilled, and much heavier Nords were prevailing in this fight. Most of the orcs had been wiped out in the initial bouts, leaving only the lightly armored Forsworn to deal with the fearsome natives of Skyrim, and all their righteous vengeance, but numbers counted for something too, and the fight seemed to even out.

Just like the duel occurring in the center of the slop between two ebon clad titans, and in the air between two ancient demigods. Everything was hanging on a thread as these three epic clashes commenced. Something needed to break, if the giants could break the Forsworn, if Erik could somehow get the upper hand on the Ebony Warrior, if Paarthurnax should falter and Odahviing could take advantage of it.

But as the half Nord blocked another attack from his opponent, and had his own counter attack picked apart, he realized, it wasn't going to come from him…

…

The sky was on fire.

The bright blue sky that had graced this awful day was now home to two mighty dragons, both dueling in a show of aerial grace, raw physical power, and ear splitting, mind bending, reality quaking Shouts.

Elia Martell was in awe as she watched the two ancient terrors dueled in the air. She looked on in awe at the twelve foot giants holding the line and keeping the loot hungry Forsworn from rushing into Whiterun and sacking the city even as the Nord defenders were further out onto the field battling through the slop.

And she watched in awe as Erik and the Commander of the enemy were engaged in a showdown that rivaled the one in the sky, and certainly surpassed all the skill and prowess that she had seen amongst the warriors of Sunspear, and even amongst the Kingsguard, including famous training bouts between Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan Selmy.

It was her privilege to take all of this in, and her curse that she was relegated to watch. Her lungs were filled with fluid from the chilly weather, and crawling through the pipe filled with a city's refuse, her sore throat had developed into a full blown cough that wracked her body. A splitting migraine and an irritable stomach capped off her cavalcade of misery. If it weren't for the upcoming battle, it was likely the healers here would have been able to help her, but the Princess refused to be a burden, or the reason a healer was too tired to save a brave young man's life because she couldn't put her life on the line, same as he had.

But there was a solution, laying in her hands. Given to her by a fiery redheaded woman who stood side by side with Brelyna, aiding and protecting the powerful she elf with her bow. Aela she had called herself, and had plenty more to say that was interesting at the very least.

Hircine, another of the Daedric Princes, was her master. The spirit of the hunt, and a 'divine' protector of all nature. Aela had told Elia that he could cure her, give her strength. All she had to do, was put on the little wolf's head ring sitting in the palm of her hand.

As another fit of coughing wracked her body, the little ring seemed to glimmer in her hand. It wasn't the prettiest piece of jewelry she had ever seen, but it was tempting in ways she couldn't even begin to fathom.

What were the chances it would even work? What would the price be? Why would this Hircine allow Aela to just give some foreigner, a nonbeliever, a pagan from their perspective, to have an artifact, particularly if it did the things the Huntress claimed?

A look back up to the field of battle saw her brother, Oberyn, and Erik's sister Froki, fighting back to back in the mud, both using spears in different ways, but both doing far more for the city filled with innocents than Elia. A person she had honestly believed to be a myth up until this point, Vilkas, stood alone in the slop, slaughtering Forsworn and orcs alike, but slowing down as their numbers surrounded him. That young soul, Decius, was lying face down in the mud. He had given his life, and Elia was holding back.

In fact many had already died, and Elia could have done something. She could have tried at the very least. One last look at the silver wolf's head ring, and her choice was made…

…

This was it. His shoulders were heaving, as were his opponents. Erik and the Ebony Warrior stood apart from each other, having traded blows for some time, though neither was sure how long. The sun was hot, for Skyrim, but the field was much hotter. Fire raged around them, both on the corpses of men, and in the spirit of the warriors giving their lives, and it was wearing on the two men in the middle of it all.

This was it, the final bout, and they both knew it. Just like this would likely be the waning moments of the melee, where one side finally gained a true upper hand, and routed the other, the same way Odahviing and Paarthurnax would decide their duel in the skies in just a few moments.

A sharp war cry from both warriors, and their match reignited with a furious reckoning.

Wuuthrad pounded the Ebony Warrior's shield, who responded with a lightning fast sword strike across the Dragonborn's midsection. Erik easily stepped away from such a maneuver and went for a risky gamble, hooking the beard of Wuuthrad on the backside of his opponents shield and ripping it out of his hands.

Two powerful swipes of the mighty ax hit naught but air as the loss of the shield only made the Ebony Warrior more maneuverable. The smaller of the two titans slammed the hilt of his obsidian sword into the back of Erik's knee, dropping the bigger man to the ground.

The Warrior pressed his advantage and leapt on the Dragonborn's back, pushing him face down into the mud. The vengeful fighter reared up, prepared to drive his longsword into the half Nord's back, but the bigger man beneath him gave a mighty heave and launched himself off the ground and simultaneously launched the Ebony Warrior off of his back.

Storm's Wrath appeared in Erik's hands as he turned to meet the obsidian blade of his most dangerous rival. Sparks flew as Skyforge steel and ebony ground against each other.

"You can't beat me!" the smaller of the titan's whispered across the interlocked swords, "You had to bury me under an avalanche just to escape last time!"

Erik threw the man back, and they traded blows again. The ringing metal echoing louder than the battle around them as the significance of this duel was not lost upon those fighting around them.

"How did you survive?" the larger of the two asked as they once again locked blades, down low this time.

"You know how," the other one ground out bitterly before separating, trading three more strikes with his opponent and this time locking blades above their heads, "Miraak found me. Gave me life. Gave me a purpose. Gave me a puppet to use for power, an old friend of yours if I'm not mistaken."

Erik growled and used his superior body weight to knock the Warrior off balance, "Paarthurnax had found redemption. He had found a purpose beyond his own evil nature… and you and Miraak would make him a slave!"

The Ebony Warrior watched him through his eye slit before saying simply, "We're all slaves."

The legend, the myth, the ultimately skilled fighter in every facet of war, raised his sword high and struck faster than lightning, catching the Dragonborn with his defense low. The blow would have killed Erik, if it had ever landed.

The ebon clad titan fell to the ground, gurgling on the blood rising through his windpipe, put there by the dagger wedged between armor plates and going right through one of his lungs. Still holding onto the knife was the last person Erik expected to see on the battlefield, apart from his wife.

Elia Martell looked different. She was still the slim and slender Dornish woman he knew, but her skin seemed healthier, her muscles were defined, and taught, and there was a vibrant gleam in her eye. The Princess gave the dagger a twist, and the greatest Warrior in the recent history of Tamriel knew nothing but death.

A resounding boom filled the air, distracting Erik from the sudden changes in his friend, as Paarthurnax hit the ground, crushing a fair number of Forsworn as he did so. Odahviing managed a much more graceful landing, though not by much, as the ruby dragon showed signs of the beating he had taken. Angry red marks travelled up and down his scaly hide, each of them showing signs of burns and frostbite, the unfortunate result of getting into a verbal argument with a dragon.

The rusty colored dragon had struggled to its feet by now. Setting dull, dead eyes on Erik and his ruby red companion. Miraak hadn't just bent Paarthurnax's will, he had broken it. Shattered it. Left nothing of the once proud dovah inside. They had truly made him a slave, and now it was up to the Dragonborn to make him a corpse.

Around them, the battle had broken as well. While the Forsworn, slaves in their own right, were not going to flee, any sense of battle order, or discipline, or even skill, had died with their Commander. The giants no longer had to hold back a savage horde, but easily carved their way through the small humans. The Nord soldiers were having an easy time of it as well, cutting their way through the routed Bretons like they would practice dummies.

Paarthurnax reared his head, his jaws open and ready to Shout…

 _ **IIZ!**_

The ancient demigod's mouth was encased in ice, preventing him from continuing a fight he had never wanted in the first place. Though to be fair, Paarthurnax wanted nothing anymore, or at least nothing his master didn't want.

Erik approached slowly, Wuuthrad back in his hands. Ysgramor's mighty ax twirling with agitation in his hands.

"He doesn't deserve this…"

" **No…** " Odahviing replied from his place at Erik's side, " **We did not agree on much, but I always held him in the greatest respect. Bo Nu Ko Drem, Paarthurnax.** "

The Dragonborn placed an armored gauntlet against the rusty dragon's hide, looking up into the orange eyes, and seeing nothing but an empty shell.

"He was already gone from this world… I do him justice now."

Wuuthrad tasted flesh once more…

 **Not super excited about that ending, and obviously, one more chapter in Skyrim to go, or at least on this arc.**

 **The reason I don't like the ending that much, is because I think I tried to shove to much in there. I have a range I like to do for chapters being around 7000 to 8000 words. Anymore than that and I feel like I, if I were reading it, would lose interest, anything less and its not satisfying, and I wanted to end the action of this arc in this chapter, and use the next chapter to kind of sort of set up the next one. I couldn't give both the Ebony Warrior AND Paarthurnax the justice those characters really deserve, and the way I had set it up with my writing, Erik was the one facing the Ebony Warrior, who happens to be one of my all time favorite Elder Scrolls characters, so he got the love and attention. It's not that I don't like Paarthurnax, I do, but the game already fleshed out so much of his character, but with the Ebony Warrior, you feel like you don't know him. That's actually the reason I like him so much, because it allows me to craft a character around the frame that's already there. Perfect warrior, and skilled in the way of the Thu'um, everything else is there for interpretation.**

 **No, Elia isn't a werewolf, yes that is the ring of Hircine, more on that in the next chapter, which will be a multi POV chapter BTW.**

 **Now who gets to come back to Skyrim. I happen to notice someone has recently lost a tie to Skyrim…**

 **Now please review, and really give me some nitty gritty, even if its bad. Cause seriously, how can I elevate this story to its full potential if y'all don't help me?**

 **Skol Vikings! Of course now that I've said that their going to get crushed by the freaking Falcons. Lol, that reference will get old quick as I look back. Oh well. Wait, is this thing still on?**


	13. Chapter 13

**Well that was received better than I thought it would be. I'm glad for it. It gives me confidence that this story isn't going to just fade away like a lot of others I've seen on this site. I guess that'd mostly be on me anyway, but I digress.**

 **Last chapter of the 'Homecoming' arc. If you can call it that. Although that sounds like that Spiderman movie which I've never seen, mostly because I've never liked Spiderman… It's not important.**

 **Next chapter for this story would be some time away as I have two other stories that need some updating, but I think we can all deal with that as long I do entire story arcs in one sweep, right?**

At least the screams were dying out. The giants were literally stamping them out as they roamed the field. Their leader, the big female, preferred to use her ax, but the rest just stepped on the wounded Forsworn scattered around the field, their massive feet easily crushing the life out of the diminutive Bretons.

None had fled, which was curious, but irrelevant, as the mismatched force of Nords, giants, and an actual dragon had made quick work of the remnants once the Ebony Warrior and that, other, dragon had been slain.

Froki wasn't entirely concerned with what was happening around her right now though. Mostly the young woman was concerned with the body in her arms. Decius… well she had never actually learned if he had a family name like most Imperials… and now she would never know. Just like she would never know if he had family, if she would ever get the chance to meet them. The tall girl liked to think that she would have gotten along well with his mother, if she was still alive. That she could have met his brothers or sisters, even the man's father, and made them her own family, especially considering the way she had parted with Dorna, the child between her and their older brother Erik.

Decius looked different now than he did in life. His cheeks were gaunt, and pale, kissable, full lips were now blue, and his once extremely emotive eyes were now more blank than she had ever seen. His hair had once been so thick and full now looked like the head of a broom, and not the soft blanket she used to run her hands through.

But more than anything, what had changed was the way she felt. Tears were in her eyes, but they weren't falling. She felt like something had been stolen from her, like someone had taken her most cherished possession away, but she wasn't crushed. She had been crushed when mother disappeared, when father had died, when Dorna had told her to never come back after she left to look for Erik. She had been crushed when she realized that her journey to Skyrim had been for naught as Erik was supposedly dead. But the death of her lover? She was saddened, even hurt, but she wasn't crushed, she wasn't bawling, she didn't feel the need to crawl in a hole and avoid the world.

Perhaps Vilkas was right. She really had no idea what she had had with Decius. All this time Froki was convinced that she had loved him. That the short Imperial, and the tall Redguard would live their lives together, have children, but now the young woman realized that she had been fooling herself, and fooling Decius.

That hurt more than anything. Froki had made a fool of the young man. He had loved her, and she had been lying to his face all this time. He had deserved better. Decius was a good man, deserving of any woman, not some pig faced, half breed, giantess with huge feet and small breasts…

Now the tears were flowing readily as the reality of her life set in. Dorna was right to forbid her return, she was a terrible person who lied to the people who loved her.

A hand clapped her on the shoulder, causing Froki to look up into the steel grey eyes of her mentor, and if she was being honest with herself, a second father to her. So that probably meant that she would end up getting him killed someday too.

"He was a good man, a good shield brother, and I know you cared a great deal for him."

A new wave of self pity hit her, "Did I? I… I…"

Vilkas pulled her up from the ground, and immediately embraced her, "I know how you feel, almost exactly."

Froki shook her head and tried to fight her way out of the hug, "No you don't. I never loved him! I've been lying to him, making him a fool! He loved me, gave me everything he had, and I gave nothing back!"

The veteran Companion slapped his understudy, "You and your brother! Always blaming yourself, finding the worst in yourselves. Self pity!"

The handsome Nord spat on the ground, "It's an annoyingly endearing trait, but mostly just annoying. Of course you loved him! and if you think you didn't, the only fool here is you, for it certainly wasn't Decius."

The young woman blinked in shock as she looked back at Vilkas, who saw fit to continue, "That emptiness you feel, the feeling that you don't feel anything at all? It's fleeting. You'll need time to understand what just happened. The same way I needed time to understand what happened after Farkas died. Take some time, talk with your brother. You've just lost someone special, and gotten someone special back."

Froki nodded silently, taking the older man's advice as though it came from Talos himself. Though that was something she did with everything the man said.

The youngest child of Rayya Ironfist and Azzada Faraj looked towards the eldest.

Erik was still standing by the giant dragon skeleton. That had been a show, the ancient terror disintegrating, burning as bright as the son, and then, the way Erik just… absorbed it. Froki had heard tales of how her older brother had been able to devour the souls of dragons, but to actually witness it…

In all fairness, she had always held those stories in doubt, even the ones about his martial prowess and ferocity in battle. Her brother had always been a sweet boy to her and Dorna, and in truth always struggled with the mule because he was too kind to hit it with the switch. The thought of him slaughtering men and slaying dragons had seemed too farfetched. Until she saw it with her own eyes.

When she first saw him he had been a total stranger, for whatever reason she had envisioned him in all the stories as being the handsome, dashing hero. Now that she had reacquainted with him, she remembered the homely little, well not really little, boy that was always made fun of by the girls his age. And now he was married to quite possibly the single most beautiful woman, Froki had ever laid eyes on.

Then the young woman had seen the ferociousness others had spoken of. On the initial charge through the Forsworn ranks, he had been unstoppable, and insatiable. By her own estimation, her older brother was single handedly responsible for killing more Bretons with just his ax, than anyone else had killed, altogether, including the dunmer mage from the College of Winterhold.

His bloodlust was unbelievable to see, and more than a little concerning. He had been so nice when they were children, and now his disposition more closely resembled a berserking orc that hadn't had the chance to kill something in over a month. There was a definitive glee to the way he attacked the horde, as though each life taken brought him pleasure.

And then to see Erik the Dragonborn take the command of the field, controlling the ebb and flow of battle with Shouts that shook the air and literally rent the ground. He had shown her that he was not the boy that used to hang his head low whenever Father would yell at him, or Mother for that matter. He was a titan now, a man with few peers, and it seemed that he was killing them off one by one.

That Ebony Warrior was known to Froki, though thought by her and those who told her of him to be a myth, some sort of story book villain that you would use to scare small children. But he was real, and now he was dead, thanks to her brother.

Their duel had been one for the ages, speed and ferocity that the young woman had never seen before. Vilkas was perhaps more technically skilled, but Erik was truly talented. Their battle had captivated any who saw it. There were Nords and Forswron alike that had stopped their melee in the slop to watch the two masters of their craft put their lives and reputations on the line.

To be fair, even now that there was no battle, half the Nords around her were simply staring openly at him. Him, or the great red dragon standing next to him, or the giant dragon skeleton laid out across the ground. The chances were surprisingly equally good, as Erik was no common sight in his ebony armor, studded with horns and claws from the many beasts he had slain in his apparently illustrious career as a dragon slayer.

As Froki approached, she must have made some sort of noise, as the huge red immediately snapped its attention onto her, bright sapphire eyes pinning her to her spot. Rationally, she knew the beast would not harm her, but that predatory gaze was not bringing out the rational side of her mind.

Fortunately, Erik noticed the dragon's sudden shift in demeanor, and followed its gaze to his youngest sister, "Froki…"

Three long strides took him across the field, over the corpses of Forsworn and Nords alike, and right up to his little sister, where he promptly wrapped her up in a crushing hug.

"I'm so glad you're safe…" he whispered into her ear as she stood motionless in his embrace, not returning it, not fighting, just, dumbfounded, "I had reservations about you fighting."

Froki finally reacted to her brother, "I'd have never forgiven you for denying me the opportunity to fight for our mother's homeland. For my home of the past year."

That expressionless mask looked down at her, making the young woman more uncomfortable by the second until two gauntleted hands reached up and grabbed the crested helmet, pulling it over his head and dropping it to the side. Froki's own chocolate eyes stared back at her, an unusual combination of worry and joy swimming in them.

"Sister," he asked cautiously, "Are you well?"

"I'm fine…" she lied, before immediately repenting, "No I'm not. Decius is dead…"

Understanding dawned on her brother's face as he nodded slowly. He didn't say anything, what could he say? He didn't know the young man that had been so important to his little sister, but he could provide the young woman some much needed comfort as he pulled her in for another embrace.

This time Froki returned the hug, letting tears fall again.

…

Erik's arm was draped over her shoulder as they watched the gloried defenders that had given their lives burn in a massive funeral pyre. The bodies were too many, and the ground too hard, for proper graves to be dug. Besides that, the various crypts scattered around Skyrim had lead to a small superstition, particularly among the Companions and denizens of Whiterun about burying whole bodies anyway. Draugr were too common for them not to believe that at least some of these men and women who had died would come back with an evil intent, regardless of the kind of person they may have been in life.

Froki watched the blaze with little interest, thinking about an earlier funeral pyre, where the Companions had burned Decius' body on the hot coals of the Skyforge. Supposedly such a ritual was the reason the Skyforge steel was superior to all other steel, strengthened by the souls of the Companions burned on its coals. She liked to believe it was true, and that was the reason she had commissioned a second spear from old Eorlund, using the gold she had been gifted as a piece of her inheritance from Erik. Whether that gold was hers anymore was semantics, as her brother, now that he was back from the dead, wasn't likely to deny her the right to use it.

She could hear from her spot underneath one of her brother's arms the older smith hammering away already. The spear was actually Erik's idea, telling her that Storm's Wrath, his sword at his side, was made after Farkas' body had been burned on the coals, and that he could tell there was a difference between it, and the one before, despite the fact that they were nearly identical.

But the speartip wouldn't be the only special piece, as the Gildergreen the ancient tree in the center of the Sky District had taken some damage from the initial siege and shed some branches. The conduit of Kynareth was fine, and already the branches that had fallen were already growing back, but several fo the branches were rather large, and one in particular was the perfect length and shape for a six foot spear haft.

Some small sniffling brought Froki's attention to the other side of her brother, and to her unbelievably beautiful sister-by-law. The young woman didn't think she was necessarily sad or grieving at the sight of the gloried defenders ascending to Sovengarde, but rather the sniffling was a result of the chilly summer night that they found themselves in.

The tall woman warrior reached down into her pocket and picked out a kerchief, reaching across her brother's armored chest to offer her the clean white cloth, "Here, I've got a spare."

The blonde woman took it with a grateful look, "Thank you, fortunately one of you can show some chivalry."

Lynesse gave Erik an elbow to his armored side, causing the big man to smile at his wife's jibe, "What else can you expect from such a barbarous brute?"

Froki's eyebrow's furrowed at the question before looking back to her newest sister to find her smiling, and looking up at Erik with adoration clear in her sky blue eyes, "Oh indeed! In fact I fear what cruelty you'll bring upon me next? Perhaps you'll forget to use the scented oil the next time you give me a foot massage?"

Oh, this was a joke between the two. Actually, since she had observed the two of them, granted for just a short time, they seemed to have a lot of little things they could do to bring a smile to the other's face. Just earlier, Erik had made Lynesse smile even as she seemed to be sickened by the sight of so many dead being stacked on a funeral pyre. All he had to do was suggest that the crows would be murder. A stupid pun Froki had come to expect from their father before he had passed, now came from her older brother on a regular basis.

Funnily enough, from what Froki could really remember of her parent's interaction, those dumb puns had always made her mother laugh as well.

Decius and her had never had any jokes like that.

"Perish the thought, **dii kiim** ," Erik told his wife as he hugged her closer before turning back to Froki, "The dead have been honored, they rest and revel in Sovengarde now, and await our eventual arrival. This is a joyous occasion."

The young woman nodded, comforted by the thought that Decius awaited her patiently, and that she had her opportunity to honor his memory in life. She looked back to the fire before saying, "Then it is time to celebrate the victory, is it not?"

Erik nodded, "Soon, I could use a bath first… As could you."

"Ugh, we could all use baths," Lynesse said as she crinkled her nose, "I'm just wonder if there is enough hot water?"

"Heh," Froki's brother huffed throatily, "We could always share…"

…

The bath was cold, Lynesse was not. That was mostly due to her husband's delightful efforts to keep her warm. His lips were trailing fire along her skin as his hands pawed at her breasts and her rear end. Her own hands raked angry red lines across his chest as she let out high squeaks and throaty moans, more on purpose to drive Erik into a frenzy than anything actually being forced out of her.

Not to say she wasn't enjoying it, especially as she him buck into her especially hard, but the only time she really felt the need to make noise was…

"Ugh!" Lynesse suddenly cried out as she felt herself clench down on her husband. The petite woman grabbed her husband's head and forced it into her breasts as she began growling out her pleasure, "Nghuuuuh! Erik! Oh my sweet Savage!"

The giant man then did something that was just another indicator of how good their chemistry was, as he bit softly on her left tit, something that caused her to lose all feeling in her legs as they began to shake. The former Hightower pulled her husband's head off of her breasts before shoving her tongue down his throat.

She groaned again as she felt him give a final rough shake of his hips and empty himself inside of her. Lynesse let go of the kiss and looked through heavy eyelids down at Erik as he leaned back, his sandy brown hair was dripping, from sweat or the water she didn't know, and his own eyes seemed to be drooping a little with exhaustion. His lips, though puffy from their marital activities, were twisted in that handsome smile that only she seemed to see in him.

The Lady of Dragonstone returned the smile, this time leaning down to kiss him a little more gently. It surprised her still how easily she had gotten used to the beard tickling her smooth cheeks everytime they kissed, but she supposed that it was just something one got used too when they did it at nearly every opportunity, for her husband was a very good kisser.

When they parted, Lynesse staid pressed up against his bare chest, the light dusting of hair there scratching at her smooth skin, but she didn't mind as she raised an elbow up onto Erik's shoulder and propped her head up on her hand.

"I love you."

Erik blinked, "I know, I love you, too."

She leaned in a little closer, "Now tell me what has you worried before I'm forced to knock some sense into you!"

The big man cocked an eyebrow, "I love it when talk to me like that."

Lynesse's other hand lightly smacked him across the back of his head, "Talk, now."

She felt him shift under her, likely readjusting himself to be more comfortable in the copper tub, "I'm concerned about Froki, and Vilkas, and Brelyna."

The Lady Stormcrown's eyes softened, "What about them?"

"When I disappeared from this world, the world moved on, except for those three," he explained.

"You think that they had a hard time moving on?"

"I think my memory was holding them back," he looked frustrated, the same way he was frustrated with a dispute over fishing grounds between two merchants, like he couldn't understand the problem, and felt like it was his fault.

He was so stupid in the most endearing of manners.

"It almost feels like they thought they needed me to make their mark on the world. To make the differences they wanted" the large man continued as he looked up at the wooden rafters of the little house they were in, "But they never needed me to do that. I feel as though I crippled them, and now I'm worried about what will happen when I must leave again."

Lynesse looked into his thousand yard stare, contemplating his words before giving him her opinion.

"Well, we could take them with us…"

The water splashed as his entire body jerked at the thought, his chocolate orbs locking onto her sky blue ones. He looked like he was seriously contemplating her thought before he shook his head, "They don't belong there! What would they do? Brelyna is a scholar, an academic…"

"Dragonstone is home to one of the most expansive libraries in all of Westeros," the Lady of Dragonstone countered, "and our fleet is ever expanding, meaning that at anytime she wanted to, she could take a ship, likely with a crew we handpicked for her, and go anywhere she wishes to pursue her research."

Erik looked back at her sharply, before deflating and sighing, "Fine, okay. But what about Vilkas? He's a warrior. He was made to fight, and for causes feels is just! Do you really think he'd be willing to sit around a castle all day?"

"Do you sit around the castle all day?" she asked her husband sharply, "No, you train with the men, you busy yourself constructing those marine corps of yours, and honestly, you over extend yourself in the process. Vilkas is a leader if I've ever seen one, and can take a lot of that load off you."

"Do you think that will satisfy him?" he asked, attempting to shoot down her argument, but actually just giving her an opening to win.

"I believe, from what I've gathered speaking to both him, and your Companion friends, that he enjoys passing on his knowledge and talent to the youth, and if I'm not mistaken, we have two sons who will need someone to train them how to wield a sword," she smiled down at him, perhaps a little mockingly, "Next?"

"What about Froki?" he argued back, getting a little heated this time, "I'd be expected to marry her off! Like some sort of… livestock! And what about her wants? She wants to fight, any husband I'd find for her," he literally shuddered at the thought of forcing his beloved little sister to marry before continuing, "would never allow her to."

Lynesse held up three fingers, "First of all, you have no idea what she wants. You've spent a lot of time talking to her about what she's been doing and how she has been, you never asked her about her future."

Erik looked genuinely hurt at that, "That's not a bad thing, you've hardly had any time with her."

She moved onto her second finger, "Next, you don't have to marry her off if you don't want to. It's not required, merely expected. Besides, perhaps she'll find a suitor, and choose for you."

The Lady Stormcrown was on her last finger, and now she was looking down at her husband with soft, understanding eyes, "And lastly, she's your family! She's my family! She's the aunt to our children and with the death of Decius, she has nothing here to tie her down."

The Lord Stormcrown was looking down, "She could go back to Sentinel, be with Dorna, and her family…"

She placed her hand on his cheek, "Erik… I think you know that bridge is burnt."

The back of his head hit the rim of the copper tub, tears were swimming in his eyes, and Lynesse's heart nearly broke as he whispered, "I know… I just… I know…"

The former Hightower grabbed his head and held it up, giving him a quick peck on the lips before saying, "Talk to them. Give them the option, let them make up their own minds about it. And above all, enjoy yourself. You, and I, and the Martells, and everyone in this city, has earned it!"

Erik looked at her, tears still wetting his eyes as he gave a shaky smile, "How'd I get so lucky to have such a smart wife?"

"Clearly the Gods realized you needed some help!"

…

The revelry through the streets was in full effect, as drunken Nords staggered on the stones, singing off pitch and clanking mugs of ale together. Lynesse found the scene amusing as she sipped at the glass of wine she had acquired at the feast, and leaned over the railing of the balcony on Dragonsreach. Surprisingly, the hall was quite hot, and was the reason the Lady of Dragonstone was out on the terrace looking over the city.

That and she was drilling her current company for any stories her husband may not have shared.

Lydia was everything the former Hightower would have thought a Northern woman should be. Tall, dark of hair, dark of eye, fair of face, and thick of arm. The former housecarl was sporting a sling on her left arm, and a mug filled with mead in the other, and a smile on her face as she recalled an adventure she had taken with her former Thane, and Lynesse's current husband.

"We had a dull iron sword, one between the both of us, and that's it," the Nord woman said, eyes bright, "and that frost troll was not happy."

A small knot formed in her stomach. Lady Stormcrown had heard stories of the vicious brutes called frost trolls.

"So Erik comes up with an absolutely _genius_ plan," Lydia continued sarcastically, "'Oh, I'll distract it, you come up behind it and stab it in the back!'"

The man in question was currently inside, talking with the Jarl, explaining the deal that had been given to the giants, negotiated by Lynesse, despite the fact she had had to talk to them through Erik. From what she could see, Balgruuf was not entirely thrilled with the bargain, but more than willing to accept it, considering it had saved his city from destruction.

"What happened then?" Oberyn asked the former housecarl, dark eyes flashing with amusement, and lust, regarding the woman who was likely twice his size.

"Well, to be fair, he did distract it," she commented, "The thing lifted him by the neck with one hand and, I don't know if you've ever seen a frost troll, but they can open their mouths to just," she gestured by holding out her injured arm as far as it could, and her other arm completely extended, "massive proportions. The damn thing was going to bite his head clean off!"

That knot in her stomach decided to do flips and Lynesse had to remind herself that her husband was safe and sound just a few paces away.

"I stab the troll in the back, and all it does is drop Erik, and pick me up!" Lydia continued jubilantly, not noticing, or not caring, that the Dornish Prince was edging closer all the time, "Erik rips the sword out and sticks it in the troll's stomach this time. Unfortunately, by that time, it had a hold of both of us."

The Nord woman took a massive swig of mead, then draped her drinking arm around Oberyn's neck, looking down at the shorter, but very handsome man, that gleam still in her eyes. Apparently she did notice the Red Viper's advances, she just didn't mind.

"Fortunately it tried to eat Erik first. He shoved his whole arm down the thing's throat, all the way to the shoulder. The troll didn't have enough leverage to bite through his armor, and the beast was too stupid to realize it. Dumb animal choked to death."

Oberyn didn't bother to look into the woman's eyes, instead choosing to focus on the busty woman's cleavage threatening to burst out of their confines in the woolen dress. He did, at least, manage to pay enough attention to comment on her story, "Sounds like these trolls can fit quite a bit down their throat."

Lydia leaned down into the Prince's face, grabbing his attention, "You should see what I can fit in mine!"

With that, Lynesse found herself walking back into the main hall of Dragonsreach, finding that the balcony had become a little too hot for her, and that it might be more bearable back next to the giant hearth inside. She was forced to pick up the pace as she heard distinct smacking behind her.

Once back inside, Lady Stormcrown immediately looked for another conversation partner, perhaps someone who could give her more insight on either her husband, or the people who might be coming back with her. As it turned out, the perfect candidate was sitting at the end of one of the feast tables by herself.

It was a little surprising, considering how much time Froki and Erik had spent together, that they wouldn't be near each other at all times, but as Lynesse watched her husband tip back another glass of mead, draining the mug in one gulp and eyeing one of the scruffier looking Companions as he did the same, she could safely assume that the sister did not share the brother's love for mead. Or at least not for drinking it competitively.

The Lady of Dragonstone was a little surprised with her goodsister, mostly what she looked like. There were definite similarities between her and Erik. Both were abnormally tall, and thick, but where her husband looked like a brute, Froki looked like a handsome Dornish woman, that just happened to be as tall as Robert Baratheon. As Lynesse slid into the seat across from the girl, she got a good look at the same chocolate colored eyes her husband had, but the shape was different. They were angled, perhaps just a touch, almond shaped she had heard it described, specifically about someone else very close to her heart.

"My eldest daughter has your eyes," the mother of four said, "Not the color, but the shape. Like-"

"Almonds?" Froki asked preemptively, "It something I don't share with the rest of the family."

Lynesse smiled brightly, getting a small, shy smile in return, "Well now it is something you share with your niece."

"What…" the girl looked down at the plate of roasted pork she had grabbed from the boar at the center of the table, then looked back up, "What's her name?"

"Rayya."

Froki gave her a genuine smile, the first one Lynesse had received from her goodsister without Erik being the one to coax it from her, "Our mother's name."

The proud mother nodded, "I let Erik pick her name. We did the same thing with the twins. I got the oldest one, whom I named Alerie for my sister, and he got the youngest one, whom he named Farkas for…"

"His friend."

"He always told me he considered the man a brother," Lynesse replied.

The young woman smiled a little, "Vilkas said the same of Erik," she looked up, locking eyes with the older woman, "You have four children, don't you?"

Lynesse nodded, "A son, nearly halfway through his third year. Baelor, for my brother."

"Baelor," she seemed to test the name out, "I'd like to meet them someday…"

Lady Stormcrown reached across the table and grabbed the younger woman's hand, "Then come with us."

Froki looked at their joined hands before looking back up to her goodsister, "How?"

The former Hightower had to quash the feeling of uneasiness as she thought about the demon that would be their method of transport, "Not through conventional means, but it won't be too much trouble."

It looked like she wanted to say more, but the young woman decided to follow a different line, "What would I do?"

"What do you want to do?"

The girl looked down, her face falling before she wrapped her arms around herself, "I don't know."

"Erik thought you might not want to come because you believe your future is with the Companions."

Froki immediately shook her head, "No, no. I'm not real Companion material. That lifestyle is too… loose. There's no structure."

Lynesse grabbed her attention as she spoke, "He also thought you'd prefer to be a warrior."

"Um… yeah," the young woman smiled, "I like fighting, especially if I know I'm making a difference."

The Lady of Dragonstone nodded, "You know, your brother has been putting together a fighting force of his own, he calls them marines."

"Like the Imperial Marine Corps?"

The blonde woman nodded again, "From what little I understand of such things, yes. His main problem so far has been training. He tells me it takes time to make a proper soldier of a fisherman, and he doesn't have enough experienced men to train them."

"You want me to train fishermen how to fight?"

"Wouldn't that be making a difference?" Lynesse asked, "And you don't have to serve your brother as a warrior either. You seem like a smart young woman. There are many pursuits available to you, particularly as the sister of a powerful lord."

Froki frowned, "I won't ride on the coattails of my brother. I want to earn what I get."

"I'm not saying you won't have to earn it, I'm saying you'll have the opportunity. Just because your brother gave you the chance, doesn't diminish what you do with it."

The taller woman took on an apprehensive look, "Wait. Why do you want me to go with you so badly?"

Lynesse looked over to Erik, her giant of a husband propping up the Companion he had been drinking with for the smaller man was incapable of standing on his own. Was this a betrayal? To tell his sister his own feelings, regardless of whether or not he admitted them to himself? Perhaps, fortunately they were extremely adept at acquiring the other's forgiveness.

"He misses you," she finally admitted, "More than that, he longs for you, and Dorna, but it seems unlikely she would come. He has me, he has our children, and he has a close friend and confidant in Davos, but he still longs for his friends and family, and I believe you and Vilkas, and even Brelyna can help him start thinking of Dragonstone as his home, and not a comfortable prison."

"I'm… surprised your not insulted by the way he thinks of your home."

"I can write to my brothers and sisters anytime I want," Lynesse answered, "I know where they are at, that they are safe. It makes it easy for me to find a home on that drab and dreary island with my loving husband and beautiful children. He doesn't have the same luxury."

Froki looked conflicted at that, and remained silent for some time, giving the daughter of one of the most shrewd lords in all of Westeros a chance to really examine her. She knew what she wanted, but didn't know she knew it. She wanted to say yes, to come with them, but she was also thinking about what she was leaving behind, a common line of reasoning that led to many bad decisions by many people, fortunately, Lynesse's goodsister was smarter than those many fools.

"Alright," the half Redguard said with conviction after reaching her conclusion, "I'll come."

…

Elia had never been to a feast like this before. First of all, the food was all fairly plain, it tasted fine enough, and it certainly filled one's stomach, but it lacked the spice and delightful flavorings of Dornish foods. It also lacked the pomp and circumstance of a feast in Westeros, but at the same time, was a much friendlier and more fun atmosphere than any other celebration she had attended.

And nowhere in this great, wooden hall was that more evident, than the ring of men and women gathered in the lower entry way, surrounding two shirtless men, trading blows to the cheers of the assembled crowd.

She recognized one as Vilkas, even without the war paint that seemed to otherwise permanently grace his face. He was tall and lean, not like his opponent, the Jarl's brother Hrongar, who, while tall like Vilkas, was much thicker. Both sported impressive muscles honed by years of extensive training, and both clearly bore the marks of the battle that had taken place only that morning. That didn't stop the two from trading gloved fists in the name of sport.

Hrongar was clearly the stronger of the two, but it was also clear, that he was the slower, and less skilled, as Vilkas slipped by a straight right and punished the bigger man with several rapid strikes to the midsection. The agile warrior leaned back, watching a left crosser pass his nose, then leaned in and delivered a left jab to Hrongar's nose, stunning the bigger man and setting him up for the knockout uppercut.

The Jarl's brother nearly left his feet as the Companion's fist connected with his jaw. Still, he was thrown to the ground on his back, the crowd around him roaring at the conclusion, even if a few looked upset at the outcome as gold coins exchanged hands.

Vilkas hauled Hrongar to his feet, holding a fist in the air, "Get this man some MEAD!"

That statement was met with unanimous approval, as two pints of the dark foamy liquid found their way to the two fighters. With an arm around the other, the two clanked the ceramic containers together and quickly swallowed the drink.

Some of the mead didn't go into Vilkas' mouth, instead ran down his stubbled chin and across his lean, sweaty chest, tracing the muscles there. Elia felt something stir in her as she watched it, something she didn't even feel with her husband Rhaegar when she had been married. She was on fire on the inside, and actually felt her throat rumble as she growled like some sort of bitch in heat!

What was this? When she looked over the platters of food she felt ravenous, when she saw fighting she felt like joining, and when she saw an admittedly very attractive man, she felt like jumping on top of him and mounting him like a prized stallion. She could smell the torches burning on the wall, she could see the individual beads of sweat on the two fighters from her spot, nearly fifty feet away, and she could pick out exactly what her brother and some Nord woman were doing out on the balcony, despite the wall between them, and the buzz of a hundred other conversations happening in the room.

Elia had sought out a looking glass earlier, and stood before it naked, looking for differences. They were not hard to find. Her skin was tighter and clearer than it had been since she was a girl. Her arms and stomach and legs were all toned as though she had been training to be a warrior her whole life. Her eyes were bright with a light the Princess had last seen in her own daughter's eyes, her hair was silken and shiny, and her mouth was, for the first time in a very, very long time, cough free.

But by far, the biggest, most noticeable difference to her own eyes, was the wolf's head silver ring on her right hand.

As soon as she had put it on, she could feel herself change. Her lungs cleared, her fatigued limbs found new energy, and her thoughts seemed to turn. When she had looked upon Erik fighting the Ebony Warrior, an anger had come over her, and her body had acted without her will. Killing that man, had given her a pleasure, she was not accustomed to feeling. It was different from playing with her daughter, or laughing with her brothers, it was more fulfilling than any of those emotions, and it scared her.

What was this ring doing to her? What had it done?

 _ **You need not fear it, or me…**_

Elia would have jumped at the voice, but the powerful words seemed to calm her. They also seemed to be coming from her mind.

 _ **Wear the ring, and I assure you, you will suffer no ill consequences…**_

The Dornish Princess wasn't feeling terribly assured, as she had no idea what the ring had already done to her.

 _ **My ring, grants one control over their own body, if you were one of my followers, the power's granted to you would be much greater, but you will find the ring capable of more than enough.**_

Control? That's not what she had felt when she had first put it on. She had felt a complete lack of it, in all honesty.

 _ **You did exactly what you desired to do. Nothing more, nothing less. You feel what you've always felt, only more keenly.**_

Well, she couldn't argue with that. But why did it give her this? Why would a Daedric Prince, supposedly godlike beings from other realms, take interest in her.

 _ **Take my ring to your realm. That is all I desire.**_

So, this Hircine wished for her to wear this ring forever? Why? What purpose did it serve? Did he think that she would bend to his will in time? If that was the case, she should take the ring off right now. She'd be sickly, but she'd been sickly her whole life, and Elia could live with that.

 _ **Your illness was fatal, remove my ring, and you will die, quickly. Simply wear it, I will not force you to do anything… I have not forced you to do anything…**_

It… wasn't technically wrong. The healers had done their best, making sure she'd live at the time, but she had no reason to doubt this Hircine when it told her she was mortally sick. Elia's condition had gotten worse as the time went by, she could feel her lungs filled with fluid, her nose filled with filth, and her stomach had long since passed feeling queasy, instead feeling rotten. But now she was healthier than she had been in her entire life. Healthier than nearly anyone in the room.

Besides perhaps the picture of her ideal male, who was currently, and tragically, putting a shirt back on.

That was a problem she would have to stay on top of. She couldn't just jump all over anyone who happened to light a fire in her loins, or else she would only ever get off her back to get on her knees.

With great effort, she managed to tear her eyes off of Vilkas, and onto a platter of roasted boar.

She was starving.

…

Erik stirred from his slumber, and immediately groaned. He felt awful. His muscles ached, and various bruises and cuts all over his body throbbed. Fortunately, his hangover from the night of drinking was much more mild, mead had never really hit him too hard.

Not everything was terrible though, he was dry, felt relatively clean, and there was a warm body curled up against his chest. Lynesse smelled nice… she always smelled nice. And those little noises she made as she slept made him chuckle lightly. He was never sure if she was having a dream, or if that was just her snoring, but they sounded cute to him.

He opened her eyes to look at her, well the back of her head anyway. It surprised him a little to see her hair done up in a bun, as she typically slept with it loose, but his lovely wife had told him the night before that she would have to just to keep the straw the mattress was made of out of her hair. It mattered little to Erik, he found that he loved her pale golden hair regardless of the shape or design it was in, and that the bun merely afforded him a look at the silken skin on her slender shoulders.

The mighty Dragonborn, warrior of prophecy, veritable demigod, a man who had the power to tear the earth asunder with his voice. He didn't deserve a wife like her. Definitely didn't deserve the four children waiting for them back on Dragonstone. But he had them, all he needed to do was find a way back…

The door to Breezehome thumped three times, causing Erik to look up sharply at the sound. It was still relatively early, the warrior didn't know who could have business with him at this hour, particularly after a battle and subsequent celebration like that.

The door thumped thrice more, this time causing Lynesse to stir, "Whoever that is, tell them to fuck off."

The big man laughed heartily at his pretty little wife's language of choice, "At once **dii kiim**."

The door thumped three times yet again, causing the petite woman to push at her giant of a husband, "Go!"

Erik was shirtless, but fortunately he still had his pants, so he wouldn't completely embarrass himself as he staggered out from behind the makeshift bedroom on the bottom floor of Breezehome. Since he had disappeared, the ownership of the house had gone to Lydia, who was currently sleeping off a night of debauchery upstairs, a certain Dornish Prince likely still wrapped up in her arms.

Still, it was generous of his former housecarl to allow him, his wife, and his friends stay under her roof. He wasn't sure how much of that generosity had gone into sleeping with Oberyn Martell, but Lydia was a grown woman, and no one could make her do anything she didn't want to. Including handsome foreign Princes.

The Dovahkiin grabbed hold of the door handle and swung it open just as the man on the other side was about to knock again. The boy, for that was what he was in reality, seemed surprised by the door opening, but quickly regained his calm demeanor as he stared at the shirtless man before him.

"Erik Stormcrown?" aforementioned Erik blinked at the use of the last name. No one from Skyrim would use it so casually, "I've got something for you, a book. Read it, only when you're ready."

The Dragonborn recognized it immediately, the cold feeling in his gut having nothing to do with the icy morning air. The Black Book, THE Black Book. The one that had sent them here, now lay in his hands. The kid had already ran off, but Erik didn't notice. All he could focus on was the tome in his hands.

The eye was closed, for now, but it could open at any time.

"Erik?" Lynesse said as she walked up behind him, "What is it? Why is the door still… Seven Hells!"

She was looking at the book in his hands, "What now? I thought you did what he asked!?"

Erik shook himself from his stupor, "I did. This is our way home."

The blonde woman stared at it for a solid second before ripping it from his hands and setting it on the table near the hearth. She then turned back to him, "What do we do?"

He paused for a second, unsure of himself, before gathering his bearings, and letting the leader of men that so many have called him slip over his doubts and take command.

"Stay here, get dressed, and get ready," Erik told his wife, "I'll go find Vilkas and Brelyna…"

"And Froki!" Lynesse added quickly, then glared back at him when he gave her a confused glance, "I spoke to her since you weren't willing. She wants to come, so go get her!"

The Dragonborn growled under his breath, but did as she bid, gathering his sister, and his two friends. Froki was already awake, and training with the new spear she had commissioned from Eorlund. The weapon was a thing of beauty, but it still disturbed Erik more than a little to see his baby sister wielding a weapon of war.

Vilkas was there too, helping the young woman train, and seemed more than a little surprised, and more than a little pleased, that Froki was coming along.

Brelyna was reading, as usual, and perched on the walls overlooking the field where the battle had taken place. Of all three, she seemed the most pleased, but she had always been the true adventurer between the two of them.

The other three were already gathered in Breezehome, along with a concerned Lydia.

"I hope you're not planning on releasing a Daedric Prince in my living room."

Erik flashed what he hooped was a disarming smile, "No, no. Not… released! Just, present, within the room. Grabbing all of us with hellish tentacles and dragging us to the other world."

Lydia gave him a blank look, to which he simply said, "Once we're done, throw the book out. Cast it into a pit and bury it. Throw it into the Skyforge, drag it to the top of the Throat of the World, and drop it. But we need this."

The Nord woman gave him a cursory wave, "Fine, but know that I'll always be mad at you for this. And goodbye, and I wish you could have stayed."

Erik smiled more genuinely this time, "Me too. Goodbye."

 _ **READY… TO RETURN… MIRAAK… AWAITS… IN WESTEROS…**_

The book was open, and none of them had even touched it. Damn Mora.

 _ **COME CLOSER… PLAY… YOUR PART…**_

…

Davos had just watched his liege lord disappear through a book into another world, following the Lady of Dragonstone and the two members of House Martell. He could hardly believe what was happening, it was all a little much for the former smuggler turned hedge knight.

He turned to leave the room, trying to come up with a story for why the Stormcrown's might have disappeared, when he heard a clatter. Whirling around, Seaworth found the room completely different. Armor sets the likes of which he had never seen before occupied the room. There was a chest completely overflowing with gold and gems. Weapons lined the wall, swords, axes, hammers, spears, staves, all made from various metals that the glorified fisherman could only guess as to what they were.

Books, scrolls, anything that knowledge could be scribed upon, was filling previously non existent shelves to overfill. Then there was the book that had caused all the trouble, and the fact it was glowing, and trembling.

That was when it flipped open, and seven people came flying out…

"Alright… this is just too much…"

 **HALLO! Sorry to end this on short notice, but… oh well.**

 **Drop a review, unless you want to tell me I suck at writing, and not include any reasons why. I rely on reviews to know how to make the story better. If you think its getting worse, they're your opportunity to get me to correct it. So if your going to tell me this story is a 'fluffy mountain of shit' tell me why. Otherwise, it will remain that way.**


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